


The New Normal

by hautesauce



Series: Wake Up: A Destiel Story [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, BAMF Castiel, Bottom Dean, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel/Dean Winchester - Freeform, Dean Winchester Loves The Impala, Destiel - Freeform, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Frottage, Grace Kink, Grace Sex, Grace-Powered Orgasms, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I promise, I wrote this to stave off existential dread, Jealous Dean Winchester, M/M, Mild Smut, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, There's smut at the end, Top Castiel, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-11 16:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 47,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8998525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hautesauce/pseuds/hautesauce
Summary: Everything is wine and roses for Dean and Castiel now that they've finally worked through their feelings for one another. That is until Sam's girlfriend Charlene is summoned away suddenly under mysterious circumstances, and Castiel decides to go with her. How do Dean and Sam react when they're left behind? Is Charlene everything she claims to be? Can Dean work through his newfound feelings of jealousy? This works as a stand-alone, but I strongly recommend starting with Wake Up.------Sam cast a sympathetic eye his brother’s way. “He’s only been gone an hour, Dean. He’s been gone days, weeks, months. He always comes back.”“Yeah, well he wouldn’t just up and leave now, after, you know…” his eyes and tone trailed down to drag along the ground behind his wounded pride.“How do you know that?” questioned Sam quietly. “Did you negotiate that? Did he say that? Maybe he’s off on official angel business or something.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, it’s Cas we’re talking about here. He’s not exactly great at communicating.”“Well, things are different now.”“How do you know that?” questioned Sam calmly.“They just are, okay?” Dean replied defensively.





	1. The Broccoli

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second work in the Wake Up series. This is also the second fanfic I've ever written. The first work was much more of a romance/smut piece. This new story explores themes similar to the first, but it's more action/romance with a touch of smut. I hope you find it enjoyable!
> 
> Please comment with feedback, positive and negative. I got a lot of helpful feedback on the first story and I really tried to incorporate it into this one. Especially big thanks to the following commenters who really motivated me: impulse_baker, Lil_uhura, frankylou, Nerilka, and Dragnia. 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: destielmixtape
> 
> Much love to you all!  
> -hs

Charlene could feel her phone vibrate in her back pocket of her skinny jeans. She looked out of place, old Nine Inch Nails t-shirt and grey cardigan, standing in the middle of a large war room, flanked by two brothers in their thirties and one disheveled angel in a frumpy suit and tan overcoat. Despite her strange circumstances, she felt good, she felt happy. Her long, solid legs felt firmly planted in the ground, her short black bob was tucked behind her ears, her androgynous face smiling and peaceful. She felt the ghostlike traces of infinite possibility dancing with the small hairs on her arms. She held up one finger as if to say, _just a moment_ , and pulled out the phone to answer it.

“Hello? Yes, mom? Where are you calling from? What’s wrong? Wait, what do you mean you don’t know where you are?” Her face darkened, blue eyes dimming with each word piping through the phone speaker. “Hey, you need to stay put right there. I am going to come find you. No, no… please just stay where you-- Hello? Mom? Are you there?”

She held her phone out to look at the screen, confirming that the call did indeed end. She let her hands drop to her sides.

The taller man, with the long chestnut hair and sepia eyes spoke first, voice unsure. “Charlene, what’s going on? What’s happening with your mom?”

She replied, voice stepped in anxiety, “Sammy, she said she was lost, didn’t know where she was. She’s not supposed to leave the house, I mean she, she can't drive, doesn't even have the car keys! Or a cell phone! I don’t even know how she called me, I didn’t recognize the number.” Her voice became more panicky, words tumbling from her mouth to the floor then scuttling away. “She needs her medicine, her...”

The shorter brother, the one with flashing green eyes and sandy brown hair, chimed in gruffly, “So, uh, does this have to do with her… mental problems?”

“Yeah, Dean, she’s delusional,” she explained, trying to modulate her voice, her breath. “She’s taking a potent cocktail of mood stabilizing meds…” she trailed off, looking past Dean, through Dean,  then dropped to a low, serious tone. “She's been getting worse. She fades in and out of reality, talks to people who aren’t there, and now she’s just out wandering, or something.”

Dean looked over to Castiel, eyeing his determined face, he clenched jaw. Fuck, he looked gorgeous, five o'clock shadow a stark contrast to his flashing blue eyes and storm swept hair. He could stare at him forever and still it wouldn’t be enough.

“You need to go to her,” said the angel, low voice scraping the floor. “Let me take you home.”

“Thank you Castiel. That would be very helpful,” she said with genuine gratitude cutting into her panic ever so slightly.

“I'll come too,” Sam interjected in earnest, eyes flickering back and forth from her face and the ground.

“No, Sam, it’s fine,” she replied with a voice she prayed sounded soothing. She held up one hand as if to say, _don’t worry_. “I don’t think I’m ready for you to meet the parents anyhow,” she said with a sad, half-smile. “I’ll be in touch. Don’t think you’re getting out of giving me the full… tour.” She gave Sam a sly smile that seared his face with crimson.

The angel stepped forward and took Charlene by the hand. Charlene felt a calming tingle run up the length of her arm. He nodded to the two other men and said somberly, “I will be back soon.” With a crackle of static and whoosh of feathers both he and Charlene disappeared without a trace.

Dean started uncomfortably shifting, drumming the long fingers of his right hand against his thigh, trying to find something to look at that wasn’t his brother. He failed.

Sam’s eyes were moist, face pensive and brows furrowed. He flexed his jaw under his strong cheekbones, eyes darting around looking for words to say and finding only anxieties.

“It’s fine, Sammy,” Dean said. He tried to comfort his brother with facts. “He said he’d be right back. She said she’d be in touch. It’s just crazy-mom stuff, not friggin’ vampires.”

Sam cocked his head, brows still knotted. Dean could see him controlling his deep breaths, hiding his anxiety just as Charlene had.

“Damn,” said Dean incredulously. “Why are you so broken up? You’ve known this girl for what, ten hours?”

“Don’t call her a ‘girl’,” Sam spat. “She’s not just some girl, okay? She’s not just a Cara, a Lana, a Piper…”

“Wait, who’s Cara? Who’s Lana? Who’s-- wait, I remember Piper!” Dean nodded with approval as his face broke into a grin. “She’s the waitress girl you boned in the back of my car!” He paused and thought for a moment, face twisting into a grimace. “Are those the names of your one night stands? You _remember_ their names?! Jesus, you’re a sap--”

“Goddammit Dean!” Sam exclaimed. “Just because it took you nearly a decade of soul-crushing angst to get your… relationship shit figured out doesn’t give you the right to judge me!” Sam took a deep breath and stuffed his hands in his pockets, then spoke again, quieter. “I just really like her, okay? I feel like I… like I can talk to her.”

“And talk you did, by the sound of it,” snarked Dean. “You and Cas both, blabbing away about all of our dirty secrets like they weren’t, you know, _secrets_.”

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam practically hollered, hands flying out of his pockets to gesture at him. “What fucking crawled up your ass and died? Why are you being such an asshole all of a sudden?”

The silence was painful. Dean went to turn and walk out of the room but something stopped him. Instead, he walked over to the large map table and sat down, hands resting in his lap. Sam slowly edged toward him and saw a pained look on his brother’s face, like he strained a muscle that didn't technically exist. Sam pulled up a chair for himself and sat across from him.

Sam spoke cautiously. “You can tell me, what’s wrong I mean.”

“I know Sammy. I just… I’m not sure what to say. I feel… overloaded. Sensitive. I didn’t like how Cas just grabbed her by the arm and poof! He’s gone. He barely knows her, neither of you do.” He placed the flat of one hand on the table and pointed at Sam with the other. “And now all three of you are white on rice and I’m just… the broccoli.”

Sam cleared his throat. “You are definitely not the broccoli.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean scoffed. “I forgot, you _like_ broccoli.”

“Dude, stop it. Seriously. Charlene is Castiel’s friend. Remember? She _helped_ him. Helped you! She’s intelligent and kind and she too likes broccoli.” He leaned in to secure Dean’s eye contact. “You just need to get to know her. Do you trust me?”

Dean pressed his lips together in a line and nodded. “So, then. We goin’ after ‘em?”

“Damn right we are.”


	2. Cinder Block

Charlene gasped as she felt herself being shoved through a screen door of opaque whiteness and falling, the roar of static competing only with the panicked thudding of her heart. She had no reference points, nothing to see, grasp.  _ No, wait. Castiel. _ If she focused, she could feel his hand buzzing in her own. She concentrated on his hand, the only thing there was, and then suddenly she was dumped unceremoniously on the concrete parking strip in front of her apartment building. She nearly fell over but was steadied by Castiel, still gripping her tightly by the hand. She whipped her head left and right, relieved to see that there were no people within visual range to witness the two of them magically appearing out of thin air. 

She let go of Castiel’s hand and exclaimed, nauseous and perplexed, “What the hell was that?”

Castiel responded flatly, “I do not know where your mother lives so starting at your apartment seemed to be the most logical choice. 

Her eyes went wide with incredulity. “No, Cas! I mean how did we get here? How did you do that?”

Castiel persed his lips and tilted his head slightly. “We flew.”

Charlene’s mouth hung open slightly and she blinked at him repeatedly. “Like, with wings? Through the air?”

“Wings, yes. Air, no,” gravelled Castiel. 

Charlene threw her arms to the sides in exasperation and commanded, “Castiel, EXPLAIN.”

Castiel stared, brow furrowed, as he was finally was hit with the realization that he had just unceremoniously ripped a woman through the fabric of spacetime without warning. 

He cleared his throat. “I am very sorry. I did not think before acting.” His eyes hit the cement. “I wanted to bring you here directly, which means me taking you through the celestial plane.”

A few seconds of silence went by as Castiel memorized the outline of the oil stain at his feet. Suddenly, he was taken off balance by Charlene practically tackling him with a hug. 

“Cas, that was  _ awesome _ ! I mean, I almost vomited, but it was still awesome!” She gave him a big kiss on the cheek and he felt a blush rising. “I thought you were just going to give me a ride home in the Impala! Best birthday present  _ ever _ !” She gave him one more squeeze and then released him. 

Castiel smiled almost imperceptibly. “It is your birthday? Does Sam know?”

“Eh, it’s just a day, Cas.” She shrugged. When I was little, my mom used to make a big deal of it, cake and presents, the whole shebang. Christmas, too. Then when I left…” she gave a small shrug. 

“Well, happy birthday Charlene. I’m happy to have given you at least a small surprise.”

She smiled and dug her keys out of her pocket. “Thanks for the ride; let the boys know that I'll be in touch.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes in puzzlement. “Charlene, if you think I am going to abandon you here while your ailing mother is wandering the streets, I believe you have mistaken me.”

Charlene’s brain swam with competing impulses: fight, flight, and well, hug. She settled on taking the angel's hand.

“Cas, this is a family thing, a sensitive thing,” she sighed, hoping the angel would take a hint. 

His flat reply was betrayed by a squeeze of his hand. “My understanding is that you moved here alone to take care of your mother. You are all she has, correct?”

She nodded, her confident veneer showing signs of wear.

“But she is not all you have, not anymore. I am here.”

Charlene’s felt her eyes burn, but she pressed her lips together and pushed through the threat of tears. She exhaled sharply through her nose and searched his eyes. The only thing she saw was the same thing she always saw: unvarnished, genuine caring.  _ Eyes like a sad puppy who knows the mysteries of the infinite universe _ .

She conceded. “Okay, Cas, yes. Please help me. But just you, okay? No Sam, no Dean. Just you. Understand?

Castiel nodded solemnly. “I understand.”

Charlene led Castiel by the hand around to the side of the building where the carport stood. “Good fucking thing it’s my day off,” she muttered. She led him up to a two-door coupe, a powder blue 1979 Chevy Camaro that had seen more bad days than good. As Castiel walked around to the passenger side eyeing it with caution, she felt compelled to explain its presence. “It’s my mom’s car. I didn’t have a car in Seattle, no need for one. Now I can’t afford one.” She smoothed her hand along the roof of the car and smiled. She can’t drive anymore, so now this Blue Angel is all mine.” 

“I like her name,” said Castiel, the sound of a smile inching into his voice. 

She slid into the driver’s seat and leaned over to unlock the door for Castiel. He got in, closed the door, and looked around the interior. Stuck to the dash was a figurine of a raven standing on a book.

“What is that?” asked Castiel, pointing, genuinely curious.

“That’s Poe,” smiled Charlene as she put the key in the ignition. “He watches over me and makes sure I make good life choices. And bad life choices. Really, he’s actually more of a voyeur than anything.”

Castiel turned and looked in the backseat, where he saw books, at least a dozen, in varying states of wear. Lastly, he noticed a cinder block sitting on the floor. “And that?” he asked, pointing.

“Oh, that’s been there since I was little,” she reminisced. “It’s covering a rusted hole in the bottom of the car. I used to sit in the back seat and watch the road fly by, and one day a piece of gravel shot up while we were driving down the highway and beaned me right in the face. Look,” she said, pulling her hair back so that Castiel could see a small but distinct scar directly above her left eyebrow. My mom put down a brick, but I kept pushing it away with my foot so I could see the road again, so she replaced it with a cinder block. You know, for  _ safety _ .” She emphasized the last word, rolling her eyes.

“Why did you push the brick away, even though you had been hurt already?” asked Castiel, confused.

She turned the key and the engine turned over. She threw the car into reverse and said, looking over her shoulder, “Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment.” She cleared her throat, “or maybe I’m just my mother’s daughter.”


	3. Exploder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music reference: Exploder by Audioslave  
> https://youtu.be/jcZtLZ8UV7U

“So,” said Dean, climbing into the Impala, “how do you wanna do this?”

“Whaddya mean?” replied Sam.

The pair were dressed in their usual uniforms, consisting of flannel shirts, jeans, canvas jackets, and boots. Charlene had called it “Lumberjack Chic”, but Sam didn’t dare tell Dean that. For one, it would uncomfortably ruffle Dean’s machismo. Secondly, knowing Charlene thought something about him even remotely approximated chic was actually pretty flattering.

“I mean, Sam, what’s the plan of action?” Dean clarified gruffly. “Where are we going? What are we doing? I know you know where Charlene lives. What is her mother’s name? What does she look like? Where does she live?” He turned the ignition, put the car into drive, and headed for the main road.

Sam fidgeted with his hands uncomfortably, and looked out the window.

“Really, man?!” exclaimed Dean. “You tell this gir--”

Sam shot him a poisonous look.

“Lady, sorry. You tell this LADY everything there is to know about you, and you didn’t even catch her mom’s name? Get a look at a photo? Nothin’?”

Sam furrowed his brow. “She gave me the broad strokes, okay? She didn’t seem to want to get into the details. It’s clearly a painful subject for her, and I was throwin’ so much crazy at her I didn’t see the benefit of pressing her. You know what I know, what she told you in the bunker was the same thing she told me. Crazy mom, child abuse, Dad moves her across the country, mom gets sick, she comes back to care for her. That’s it.”

“So you’re saying the plan is for us to drive around looking for a woman? Like, any woman? That’s it?” Dean scoffed. “Well, then this should be a piece of cake.”

“Don’t you mean a slice of pie?” ribbed Sam, one eyebrow raised.

“No, this is definitely not pie, Sammy,” Dean said, ignoring the slight. “This is cake, shitty grocery store sheet cake with waxy green icing and no filling. Sad, disappointing cake.”

“Well, if it helps, she’s really... sick, you know. With cancer?” Sam added, not realizing his insensitivity until he was seven syllables in.

“Why the hell would that help?”

“Well, she’s probably really thin. And she’s probably also tall like Charlene. She might be dazed or confused. Disoriented.”

Dean exhaled through his nose. “Well, Cas dropped her off, right? Text him, see what he knows. Maybe he can give us a lead, meet up with us. He's the Vice President of the Charlene Fan Club, right? He’ll fall all over himself to lend a hand.”

“Good idea,” mumbled Sam as he took his phone out and typed. “Okay, message sent.”

They rode in silence for a while, Sam nervously drumming his fingers on his thighs while Dean focused on the road. Finally, they reached the highway.

“Still no word from Cas?” Dean asked, his gruffness tinged with something Sam couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Nope,” his brother replied, checking his phone again just to make sure. “It’s only been ten minutes since since I sent it.”

“Yeah, but it’s been thirty minutes since he left. He should be heading back soon, don’t you think?”

“Are you… counting the minutes?” Sam asked, puzzled. “Wait, are you jealous? Is this a broccoli thing?”

“What? No,” scoffed Dean, “this is not a ‘broccoli thing’.”

Sam could on his brother’s face that the comment had irked him, not in annoyance, but like it hit some raw, exposed nerve. Like a good little brother, he decided to poke at it.

“You miss him already, don’t you?” he probed with a small smile.

Dean shot him a venomous look. “You know what? Yeah, yeah I do miss him,” he spat in frustration. “I miss him enough that it’s taking everything I’ve got to not just pull over right here, fold my hands, and pray for him to show up. But you know what else?” He glared at Sam again. “I’m not going to do that, because I don’t want to be… that guy.” He paused while the trees and fields continued to fly by. He took a deep breath in and out of his nose. “You know, you helped make this happen. YOU wanted this, don’t pretend you didn’t.”

“I just wanted you to be hap--”

Dean cut him off, “and I am. Very happy, in fact. So how about you stop shitting on my parade for five seconds and act like you’re actually happy for me, too.”

It took a moment for Sam to acknowledge his insensitivity. _He’s right, I did want this. Now that I have it, I don’t know what to do with it. I’m the greyhound that finally caught the mechanical hare._

“Dean, you’re right. This is just…” he pressed his fingers into his thighs, searching for the correct words, “new. You talking to me about this kind of thing? New. You and Cas? New. Charlene? New. I’m trying to cram these new things into existing paradigms and it just isn’t working. We shouldn’t tease each other, but…” Sam trailed off and stared at the scenery blurring by.

Dean finished the sentence for him. “But we don’t know any alternatives?”

Sam turned his eyes back toward his brother. “Yes, exactly.”

“Well, that ain’t gonna work, Sammy.”

“I know.”

The rode in silence again until they were about ten miles away from town. Dean’s eyes were on the road, but all he could think about was his angel. He already missed his gruff voice telling him to lie back, to turn over. There was a fresh hole in his heart shaped like a man with wings, and it ached to be filled. “Still no word from Cas?” Dean asked, almost flinching in anticipation of some new barb from Sam.

“Nope, nothing yet,” replied Sam, trying his best to sound sympathetic.

“Text him again. Tell him we are heading into town and will meet him there,” Dean directed matter-of-factly.

Another minute went by, and Dean spoke. “Sammy, let’s make a deal.”

“Yeah?” asked Sam. “What kind of deal?”

Dean cleared his throat. “You can ask me any question you want, and as long as you can do it without being a little bitch about it, or being snarky, I’ll answer it.”

Sam furrowed his brow. “Okay, that’s fair. And you can do the same, as long as you aren’t a jerk.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

“We’re gonna help your girlfriend, okay? Whatever it takes. This is a normal thing normal people do. Help with things like this.”

Sam scoffed. “We are so not normal, Dean.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re doing a bad job,” said Dean with a defeated smile and side glance.

“Yeah, this would probably actually be a lot easier if there were vampires involved.”

Dean chuckled in agreement, keeping one hand on the wheel as he dug into his pocket with the other. Out came the Audioslave tape Charlene had palmed him when they had hugged in the bunker. He inserted it into the stereo.

_I met a man locked away_  
_For things he hadn't done,_  
_Innocence on a ball and chain,_  
_He'll never feel the sun_  
_Again on his face or roses_ _  
In his hands,_

_But when he smiled_  
_At me I could understand._  
_If you're free you'll never see the walls,_  
_If your head is clear you'll never free fall,_  
_If you're right you'll never fear the wrong,  
If your head is high you'll never fear at all._

Sam rested his head on the window and let slip a small smile as the world raced by outside.


	4. Troll Lore

As Charlene drove Castiel across town to her mother's house, the angel did reconnaissance.

“It would help if you could tell me what your mother looks like,” he said with a squint.

“Um, imagine me,” she gestured with her right hand up and down her body, “but only beaten half to death with a crazy stick.”

He squinted, then turned to the window to scan the sidewalks and alleys as they drove on by, memorizing each small house, each business, as if they were pieces of a larger puzzle. “I am unsure of the physical characteristics of someone who has been beaten with a ‘crazy stick’,” he said with finger quotes, “so you will need to be more descriptive.”

“Okay, sorry,” she frowned, and tried again. “She’s tall, like me. She’s thin; she forgets to eat sometimes. She has hair like mine, but longer, unkempt. She’ll forget to bathe for days at a time and it will get ratty.” Her face pinched in concentration. “She usually wears black, or grey, and boots. She has a grey peacoat that used to be my dad’s, she doesn’t leave the house without it.”

“What is her name?”

“Pearl. Pearl Cassidy.”

Castiel hummed and nodded thoughtfully. “Are you Charlene Cassidy?”

“Nah, that’s my middle name, I have my dad’s last name.” She wrinkled her nose in embarrassment. “Hunter. My last name is Hunter. Charlene Cassidy Hunter.” She took a right at a stop sign, slowing down but not quite stopping all the way.

“That is… curious,” he said in his gravelly monotone, raising a single eyebrow.

“That’s why I didn’t tell Sam. It’s beyond curious. It’s ridiculous.” A vision of Sam flashed in her mind, his long chestnut hair falling around his face, his expressive eyebrows conveying so much more than his words ever could. She could almost feel her arms around his waist, holding him steady while he returned the favor. She was wracked with guilt and it showed on her face.

Castiel’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket and emitted a small a small booping sound, indicating he had received a text message.

Charlene chuckled. “Did your phone just boop you?”

Castiel said nothing as he looked at the screen to see a text message from Sam.  _ We’re on our way. Want to help. Need personal info about Charlene’s mom. Respond with rendezvous location. _ He looked up from the phone and it the window, trying to avoid Charlene questioning look. 

“Dean or Sam?” she asked flatly.

“Sam,” he admitted, trying to disguise the guilty feeling rising from the pit of his stomach.

Her mouth curled into a half-smile.  “Checking up on me already? What a sweetheart. Or maybe a stalker. Either way, adorable!”

“I would not describe this as strictly ‘checking up on you’,” explained Castiel gruffly. He didn't want to lie to his friend, but he also didn't want to… what was the term Dean taught him? Cock block? 

“What then?” she said, voice tinged with suspicion.

“He and Dean want to help,” he said with gravelly solemnity.  

Without missing a beat, Charlene replied emphatically, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “No, absolutely not.” She looked away from him, back to searching the streets for Pearl. 

He didn’t speak for a moment, then said, “You two are very close now, correct?”

She nodded. “Yes, I think so. I hope so.” She swallowed. 

Despite Castiel’s genuine happiness for the both of them, he had questions. “How did that come to pass? How did you meet?”

She chuckled with a sharp exhalation through her nose as she shot through a yellow light. “You got me all riled up, angel. I sat around, tried to read, but I just couldn't focus. I called mom at home to check on her, then I went to Dante's hoping to, I dunno… burn off the nervous energy? I was so excited for you, but also confused.” She glanced at him slyly. “You were just so… odd.” 

“I have been told that before.”

“Well, I mean it as a compliment. I couldn’t figure out what to make of you. Then, Sammy was there, I didn't know who he was at the time. I showed him how to play a videogame and we got to talking and well…” she glanced over to Castiel who bore a face of concentration, “let's just say it didn't take long to connect the dots. Then one thing sorta led to another… ”

Castiel raised an eyebrow again. 

Charlene giggled. “Not like that, Cas. Well, sorta like that. But not… all the way that.”

He cleared his throat and gave a knowing look, having been recently introduced to the concept of  _ that _ . 

“He’s just so… wayward? Ya know?” Her eyes were wistful. “Lost, sad. I’m so used to being the talker, the communicator. That was my whole life, before all this. Studied literature and communication, then worked as a copywriter, a technical writer, and my last job was as a social media manager.”

Castiel tilted his head in confusion. “I do not understand what managing social media entails.”

She chuckled. “I groomed a business to look good over the internet. Monitored communications. Ran a Twitter account. You know Twitter?”

“Yes,” replied the angel with sincerity. “Sam explained it to me. He said it was how trolls argued on the internet. I tried to follow up and research it but I could not find anything in the troll lore.”

Charlene cackled, low voice cracking and bouncing happily through the interior of the car. She reached over and squeezed Castiel’s hand, then groaned through a yawn she made no effort to stifle. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“I practiced that joke on Dean once,” stated Castiel flatly. “Prior he had said I needed to ‘lighten up’, develop a sense of humor, so I read several books on the subject. When I told it to him he groaned, so I knew it had some effect.”

She nodded, then asked softly, “He makes you feel human, doesn’t he?”

Castiel’s breath hitched in his throat. “Yes, he does in some ways,” he replied, matching her tone. “He also makes me feel… special.”

“Well, you  _ are  _ special, angel.” she agreed tenderly. “It doesn’t take a Dean Winchester to suss that out.”

“Really, I am not. Angels, well, for the most part we are just soldiers. We take orders. There was nothing special about me in Heaven. But, I am not just a soldier to Dean.” A lump bobbed under the angel’s jaw. “He makes me feel like I am better, something greater. Exceptional.”

She gripped his hand again, blue eyes darting over to meet his. “I’d have to agree with him, Cas. Sam told me you went against Heaven and Hell to protect Dean. That sounds pretty exceptional to me.”

Castiel’s phone booped again.  _ ETA 15 min. Where are you?  _

“How does Sam make  _ you _ feel?” he asked suddenly, plainly, as if she was not behind the wheel of a ‘79 Camaro but on some velvet fainting couch in the office of a psychoanalyst. She was caught off guard, struggling with words like she never, ever did.

“Um, well…” she shrugged, trying to play it cool and not succeeding. “Like I said before, he seems so sad. I talk and talk to fill the empty air with something substantive, because I can’t handle the silence, but with him I only want to listen. So I did. He told me everything, floodgates open, y’know? And the more he spoke? The more I felt for him. The more I… fell for him?” She sighed as she took a left. “He’s not normal, y’know? And me? Well, that’s what I’ve been looking for my whole life.”

Castiel finished with the obvious. “Then why refuse his help?”

She released his hand, put both hands back on the wheel, and stared straight ahead. Her tone darkened; as if a cloud passed overhead. 

“Because I'm afraid; I wanna shield him from,” she gestured around the car, “this.” Her eyes drifted out to the sidewalk and then the road ahead. “Because I’m not normal, either.”


	5. Green, Yellow, Red

As soon as the brothers crossed into town, Sam immediately started scanning the streets for someone, anyone who might resemble the avatar of Charlene’s mother he had constructed in his head. 

Dean clicked off the stereo.  “Still no word from Cas?” he asked, matter-of-fact tone betrayed by his nervous fingers drumming the steering wheel. 

Sam scanned his brother's face, his hands. “No,” he replied, approximating a casual tone as best he could. “Want me to call him?” 

“Nope,” he said sharply. “Not that guy, remember?”

“Right,” Sam replied, extending the vowel just long enough to be irksome. 

Dean jutted his jaw forward ever so slightly. “I have an idea, but you aren't gonna like it.”

“Well, we currently have no ideas, so let's hear it.”

“I say, let's go to her apartment and see if she and Cas are there, and if not…” Dean trailed off, hoping his brother would catch his drift. He didn't. 

“Yes? If not what?”

“We do our own reconnaissance. A little B and E. You know, for the greater good.” Dean nodded affirmatively, though it wasn't clear to Sam just who he was affirming. 

“Are you kidding?” Sam exclaimed in disgust. “Not gonna happen!”

“So, this is where you're drawing the friggin’ line?” countered Dean sarcastically. “Not at telling her we're monster hunters, or that I'm ‘touched by an angel’, or driving after her like a stalker even though she told you to stay away?”

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed, mouth open in shock, head shaking with incredulity. “There is a difference between oversharing and felony breaking and entering!”

“Aha! So you  _ admit _ to oversharing!” he responded triumphantly. 

Sam looked down at his lap in silence, and then out the window at the empty streets. Then he muttered, “Would it kill you to act happy for me, too? This cuts both ways you know.”

“You do know there is a difference, right? Between Cas and this new  _ lady _ who just showed up in our lives? One is someone who has died for us, again and again, who we’ve known for years, and the other is a woman you’ve known less than a day.” Dean’s voice dropped lower. “You don’t even know her last name.” He focused his attention straight ahead, squinting through narrowed eyes. “You wanna know why I’m acting so protective? Possessive? Because she’s an unknown quantity, and you know it.” 

The interior of the Impala soured with vexation. Dean expressed his disapproval by braking hard at the stoplight, turning toward his brother angrily. “What exactly do you want from me, Sammy?”

Sam turned toward his brother as the light turned green, but in their ire neither of them noticed. “I want you to trust me to make a good decision! I want you to show me that you think I have at least some semblance of good judgement!” He ran both hands through his hair in frustration. “You don’t have to take care of me like I’m a child anymore, Dean!”

“Yeah, if not me, then who?” spat Dean. “Charlene What's-her-face from Maybe-Seattle?” The light turned yellow, then red again. No cars were on the road to protest.

Sam felt a white hot flare in the pit of his stomach. Innately, he knew this was beyond their normal sibling ribbing, that this was different somehow, but his angry words came spewing out just the same. “You are a fucking asshole, you know that, right?” he hollered, slamming his hand down on the dashboard hard enough to pop open the glove box. 

The light turned green. Dean reached across the seat and roughly grabbed Sam by the jacket. “Don’t you touch my car like that!” he threatened, face reddening, breaths heaving. 

“What, like this?” said Sam vindictively, viciously kneeing the glove box closed again as Dean looked on in horror. The light went yellow, then red. 

With his foot jammed down on the brake pedal, Dean roughly shoved his brother back into the passenger side door, emerald eyes searing a hole straight through him. He hadn't felt anger like this since the Mark. His vision was swimming with red, hands shaking with a white-knuckled grip. Sam's wide eyes and ragged breaths were the only thing Dean heard or saw through his tunnel vision. Neither of them noticed the willowy woman with long black hair dart across the crosswalk in combat boots, wild-eyed and clutching a grey peacoat around a thin, black dress. She turned down an alley and disappeared. 

Suddenly, Dean felt his anger lift and evaporate, diffusing throughout the car like the afterglow of a firework. He felt his muscles slacken and he let go of his brother's jacket. Sam's face also relaxed and he dropped his defensive posture, mouth falling open slightly. They both blinked several times and shook their heads, looking down at their respective laps. 

“What the hell was that?” Sam asked softly. His pulse still fluttered, but now out of disorientation rather than anger. 

Dean struggled to find words. “I… I don't know, Sammy,” his gruff voice edged with confusion. “I felt like… I wanted to--”

“Hurt me,” Sam finished, swallowing hard. “I wanted to hurt you, too.” 

“And now I'm just… fine?” Dean shook his head to clear the rest of the haze. “And I should have been fine this whole time! Sure, I'm jealous--”

“Wait, you're jealous?” interrupted Sam. His brother was not one to admit weakness. 

Dean’s brow knotted. “Well, yeah. I mean, this whole Charlene thing is kinda wigging me out, but I went from annoyed to friggin’ murderous, man!” He ran his hand through his sandy hair and rested it on the back of the seat. “I don’t trust her--”

“Yet.”

“But that ain’t a good enough reason to nearly punch your lights out. Something weird is going on, I'm telling you.” He looked at Sam, green eyes darkened with shame. 

“I'm sorry,” was all Sam could muster. 

“Yeah man. Me too.”

“This operation is beginning to feel less normal by the minute,” muttered Sam. 

Dean paused, then cleared his throat. “So, are we going to your girlfriend's house or not?”

Sam conceded softly, “She lives behind Dante’s.”

Suddenly, the glove box popped open of its own accord. Dean frowned and raised an eyebrow at Sam, but said nothing. Sam carefully, gingerly closed it again.

Dean nodded affirmatively. The light turned green again, and Dean took a right.


	6. The Collection

Charlene drove the Camaro down a deserted street, lined with empty and boarded up houses. She pulled into a gravel spot next to a small blue house. The siding was well worn with paint peeling and flaking. The small front lawn was more dandelion than grass, and the concrete steps were cracked and uneven. The previously white front door was flanked by two streaky windows, dark curtains drawn from the inside. All around they could hear the cawing of crows. Castiel noted with a passing thought that there must be a nest nearby.

Charlene made a motion to open the car door and step out but stopped herself. “Cas, I need you to know something,” she cautioned, timbre fluctuating. “My mother, she’s very ill. She’s paranoid, delusional. When I was little, she would go into these… fits of rage. According to my dad it all started shortly after she became pregnant with me.” She pushed her hair behind her ears and left one hand behind her neck, pulling at the tension there. “She’d throw things, break things, scream at my dad and hit him, and then the next day she’d be fine again. We’d wake up every day not knowing what kind of mom would be waiting for us.”

Castiel leaned in, listening carefully. Her insecurity and anxiety pumped through the interior of the car like the blood of a heart, and his own heart swelled with concern in equal time and measure. 

Charlene took a deep, shaky breath, forced a small smile, and opened the car door. She slid out and walked with uncharacteristic apprehension up the front steps. Keys in one hand, she tried the door with the other to see if it was unlocked but tensed up. Castiel caught up behind her, and she turned toward him. He could see fear in her eyes, but also something else. She was ashamed. 

She turned to look at him, blue eyes dimmed to a dull navy. “Castiel, my point is this: As a child I woke up every day not knowing what to expect, and it broke me.“ She pointed at the door. “I missed this, the drama, the adrenaline.“ She narrowed her eyes, and pointed again, more emphatically. “This is bad, but it’s better than nothing, and that’s what I was left with in Seattle: nothing. Does that make sense?”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, shoulders slumped with empathy. “Yes, I believe I understand,” he gravelled. “Bad is better than nothing, but it is heavy. Thank you for letting me help bear the burden.”

Charlene pressed her lips together and nodded gratefully. She leaned down a step to kiss Castiel atop his head, and mumbled into his hair, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends…” With that, she turned, grabbed the knob, and slowly opened the door.

The interior of the house was swallowed by darkness. Charlene stepped inside first and called out, “Mom? Mom? Are you here?” Upon hearing no answer, she stepped inside and around the door and Castiel lost sight of her. Just then, his phone booped again. He looked down to his pocket, then back up to the open doorway, and sighed inaudibly. He left the phone unanswered, and followed after Charlene. 

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the low light. The front door opened directly into a small living room, or at least a room designed to be a living room. There were two ratty armchairs and a matching loveseat, a coffee table, and a floor lamp. There was a small hearth, above which hung a dusty mirror as well as an assortment of framed photographs. Castiel could see that they were all of a young, raven-haired girl, posing with a tall blonde man and a willowy sable-headed woman that had to be Pearl. The room smelled heavily of beeswax and a musty, mossy aroma, underlied by the sickly sweet odor of the infirm, of illness. Dust was everywhere; backlit from the morning sun outside Castiel could see motes floating and swirling like tiny insects. Charlene made her way to the window and drew back the heavy brocade curtain. A slice of white cut through the room, illuminating the spectacle.

The walls of the room were lined with bookshelves that ran all the way up to the low ceiling, and they were crammed full of books, binders, journals, manuscripts, and folios, organized in no immediately recognizable way. Every surface, including the sofa, was stacked with more books and everywhere were countless pen and ink drawings of human figures and scenery. Dotting the landscape were dozens of candles spread throughout the room. There was a path through the rubble from the door to one of the chairs, one that beared left down a hallway, and another that veered off to the right where Castiel assumed there to be a kitchen of some sort.

Charlene grimaced and held her hands out as if to present the contents of the room to Castiel like an offering. “Welcome to the… Collection.” 

“What am I looking at?” asked Castiel in a low, slightly overwhelmed voice. He did not know what to expect, but this definitely wasn’t it.

“This, my dear angel, is a running record of my mother’s craziness.” She walked over to a shelf and pulled out a small volume, then tossed it to Castiel, who caught it in one hand and turned it over to examine the cover. A very old copy of  _ Ovid’s Fasti _ . 

He gently flipped through it. “In the original Latin,” he muttered, impressed. “Your mother, she speaks Latin?”

“She speaks a lot of things and reads even more. Latin, Greek, pretty much all of the romance languages, Farsi, Arabic. She majored in linguistics in college and went to the Defense Language Institute.” 

Castiel raised an eyebrow, and Charlene took notice. “I believe the turn of phrase you’re looking for is, “curiouser and curiouser,” she said with a sort of shy mischief.

_ She’s proud of her mother, after all she’s been through _ , regarded Castiel.  _ Curious, indeed. _

“I actually do understand that reference,” said Castiel with a small, proud smile. “Dean played a song for me once about a white rabbit, said it was about ‘doing way too many drugs’, but then I looked it up myself and discovered it was in reference to a series of children’s stories.”

“Yeah, my mom loved the Alice stories as a kid. She was always good with words, with language. She actually worked for the government doing translations at Fort Riley running up to the Persian Gulf War,” she explained. “That’s where she met my dad. He worked as a defense contractor.” She tipped her head from side to side as she hit all the story beats. “They fell in love, and she got pregnant, and almost immediately she got sick. My dad moved her out here, hoping the peace and solitude would help, but, obviously, it didn’t.” She stepped over a pile of papers and took the book back from Castiel. “She would be quite irate to find me going through her ‘research’,” she cautioned as she slid the book back onto the shelf. “Her illness has manic and obsessive features. She is completely and utterly fascinated by mythology, specifically Greek mythology and mysticism. This,” she winced as she gestured around the room with both hands, “is her journey. Starting from when my dad and I left and running all the way up to today.” She exhaled softly through her nose. “Shall we move on?”

She turned and headed down the hall, and Castiel followed, ignoring a new boop going off in his pocket.


	7. A Little B and E

God dammit,” muttered Dean, staring at his phone screen as if to will a reply. He and Sam stood outside the locked door of Charlene’s building, Sam shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other with his hands jammed into his jacket pockets, Dean with a scowl that he didn’t even bother hiding from Sam at this point.

“I texted him,  _ three times _ !” Dean grumbled. “Something’s wrong.”

Sam cast a sympathetic eye his brother’s way. “He’s only been gone an hour, Dean. He’s been gone days, weeks, months. He always comes back.”

“Yeah, well he wouldn’t just up and leave now, after, you know…” his eyes and tone trailed down to drag along the ground behind his wounded pride.

“How do you know that?” questioned Sam quietly. “Did you negotiate that? Did he say that? Maybe he’s off on official angel business or something.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, it’s Cas we’re talking about here. He’s not exactly great at communicating.”

“Well, things are different now.”

“How do you know that?” questioned Sam calmly. 

“They just are, okay?” Dean replied defensively. 

Sam knew in his heart that his brother was right. He paused, changing tactics. “Maybe his phone is on ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode?” said Sam, voice lilting upward. 

“Sammy, he doesn't even know how to set his ringtone. You think he'd bother learning ‘Do Not Disturb’?”

“Well, I know for a fact he can change his ringtone because last time I heard him take a call it played that ‘Angel of the Morning’ song,” Sam bickered. 

Dean made a face that clearly and in large letters spelled out  _ GUILTY _ . 

“Wait, you did that, didn't you,” smirked Sam. 

Dean cleared his throat and inspected the air around his navel. “It was a joke, but then he told me he liked it and kept it.”

“I had no idea you were such a sap!” teased the younger Winchester. 

Dean redirected Sam without acknowledgement, muttering, “So, are we doing this or not?”

Sam looked at the door with a frown and said nothing. Suddenly, the door sprang open from the inside and out walked Dave, the curmudgeonly bartender from Dante's. He was in a sweatshirt and jeans, carrying a bag of garbage. 

“Oh,” he grunted, “it's you again.  Forget your panties?”

Sam felt heat streak across his cheeks but before he could reply Dean stepped in, “Heh, he sure did,” he said jocularly.  “Forgot his phone, too.”

Dave looked the pair up and down with suspicion. “Well, I don't think she's here, but you can go up and check.”

“Do you live here?” Dean asked, aiming for innocent but landing on dopey. 

“Yup,” he grumbled in reply. “Own the building, too.”

Sam probed deeper. “You don't know Charlene's mother by any chance?”

“Oh, Pearl?” Dave's small eyes darkened. “Everyone around here knows Pearl.”

Dean went into full reconnaissance mode, shifting slightly to lean against the building, approximating casual interest with a conversational tone. “Is that so? Why is that?”

Dave blinked a few times and replied dourly, “Because she's a witch.”

“Say what now?” asked Sam blankly, brain processing slowly.

“You deaf?” Dave grouched.

Dean interjected, trying to cover, “Are we talking good witch or bad witch? Is she like a Glinda? Or more like an Endora?”

Unfazed, Dave turned and walked to the trashcan next to the building. He popped off the metal lid and unceremoniously plopped the bag inside. Then, he turned back to the brothers and spoke in full, unbroken sentences, genuine concern in his eyes. “Look, I like Charlene, I really do,” he gestured with the trash can lid, brandishing it like a disgruntled dwarf, “but she should never have come back to this backwater. She thinks her mom is crazy, but she isn’t, never was. She’s cursed, and now she’s bringing that curse on Charlene.”

Dean and Sam slowly looked at one another and then back to Dave.

Dave clanged the lid back down on the garbage can and crossed his arms over his chest. “Look, I can see you boys don’t believe me, and I don’t blame you, but there is a reason Charlene’s dad left, that all the lots around her mom’s house are empty. Ask Charlene about the crows. Hell, ask her about the dogs!”

“What about the dogs?” Sam blurted, eyebrows threatening to crawl off his face. Dean nudged him in the side with an elbow as if to say,  _ Get it together, Sammy _ .

“Look,” said Dave, gruffness melting into regret, “I shouldn’t be tellin’ ya any of this, but you,” he looked to Sam, “seem like a nice guy and, well...” he shrugged his shoulders, “she’s gotta lotta baggage and you don’t look like the kinda guy who can carry it up the steps.”

Dean silently mouthed the word,  _ Ouch _ .

Sam threw his gaze downward, suddenly unsure of himself in the light cast by the surly bartender’s words. 

Dean cleared his throat. “So, uh, you don’t happen to know where… Pearl lives, do you?”

“When you find Charlene, you can ask her yourself,” he said brusquely. He unlocked the door and held it open for the brothers. Dean took the door, and Dave simply turned and walked toward the bar.

“So definitely not vampires then,” mumbled Dean as he and Sam slipped inside. 

Sam rolled his eyes, “Not funny, Dean.”

Dean made a motion with his hands toward the stairs, indicating,  _ After you _ . Sam went up the stairwell first, dull ache in his hip from falling in the parking lot the night before, and upon reaching Charlene’s door he tugged his jacket down and cleared his throat. Dean stood back, arms crossed with a tickled look on his face. Sam raised his hand to knock when Dean stopped him, “So, are we not going to talk about the part where Charlene’s mom is a witch?”

Sam turned and stared at Dean, face twisted in frustration. “Are you being serious right now?”

“Dave said ‘witch’, dude. Kinda seems worth talking about.”

“Dean,” Sam hissed, “She’s not a fucking witch!”

“And you know this because…?”

“ _ Dean _ ,” he whispered angrily, “Charlene would know if her mom was a witch!”

“How? She’s only been here, what? Six months? And prior to that she’d been gone twenty years! Plenty of time to witch things up.”

“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,” sighed Sam, eyes rolled so far back that he could see his own grey matter. “She’s a sick woman, dying of cancer, wandering the streets alone. I, for one, am primarily interested in  _ her safety _ . Can we please get back to--”

“Fine, be my guest, Sammy,” Dean said, gesturing to the door.

Sam exhaled sharply through his nose, tilted his head to crack his neck, and knocked sharply on the door. Five seconds went by, and then he looked at Dean, who shrugged. He knocked again, louder this time, though he wasn’t sure why because he knew the apartment was small; if she was there she'd have heard him the first time. He tipped his head down, and stared at the door as if his thoughts had the power to spring it open. He pressed his lips together and reached down to try the knob. It was locked. He closed his eyes and sighed. Suddenly, he felt Dean shove him gently out of the way with his shoulder as he unpocketed his lock picking kit.

“Dean,” hissed Sam, “What are you doing?”

“Don’t look, Sammy,” Dean smirked. “It’ll give you plausible deniability.”

Sam looked at him with searching, pleading eyes as he bobbed his head with incredulity.

“Do you want to find her, or not?” said Dean flatly, tools in hand.

Sam sighed, closed his eyes, and turned away, and then heard Dean fiddling with the internal locking mechanism of the door. Suddenly, there was a satisfying metallic pop, and he heard the door creak open. He opened his eyes and muttered to Dean, “not a word of this to Charlene.”

“No worries, Sam. I’m not the one who’ll need to tell her.”


	8. The Gallery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literary Reference: The Awakening by Kate Chopin

Castiel followed Charlene down a short hallway, darkness flashing to dimness as she flipped a light switch that punctuated the peeling, burgundy wallpaper. The overhead light fixture was missing all but one weak bulb, and was insufficient to see anything in fine detail. They passed a darkened doorway; Castiel could see the outline of a pedestal sink and their fleeting reflections in a grimy mirror. They reached a door at the end of the hall, and Castiel noted that where a knob once was, there was now only a empty fitting. Charlene went to push the door open and looked back to the angel, who glanced curiously down to the hole in the door and then back to meet Charlene’s eyes. 

She shrugged slightly and said, almost apologetically, “She kept locking herself in, refusing to come out for days at a time.” Castiel thought he heard a slight quavering in her voice. “I couldn't check on her… couldn't make sure… “ she trailed off as her eyes drifted upward in an effort to drain the tears that were welling in her eyes.

_ This is not the Charlene I know _ , thought Castiel with distress. She always appeared so ebullient, so confident.  _ What would she do were our roles reversed? _

He closed the space between them quickly and embraced her without a trace of hesitation or awkwardness, and she went rigid in his arms. A tear dropped from her cheek down onto his jacket, followed by another. She slowly relaxed, more tears peppering his shoulder, his sleeve. She rested her chin on his shoulder, put her arms around the angel’s waist and cried silently, and he hummed comfortingly in reply.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I have no right crying, no right to complain.” She lifted her head up, nose inches from Castiel’s, and forced a smile out of a grimace. “I wanted this. I asked for this. I didn’t need to, but I came back anyhow. That’s how broken I am.” She swallowed, then murmured, “That’s what I want to protect Sam from.”

“You ran toward danger,” clarified Castiel, “and yes, you did not have to, but you did just the same.” He his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat; he could feel the heat of Charlene’s tears radiating outward, causing his own face to flush. “That is not broken; that is brave.” 

She blinked hard, inhaled deeply through her nose, then closed her eyes and recited from memory, “She was moved by a kind of commiseration…” Castiel felt the words as cool exhalations caressing the heat that had built in his cheeks. “...a pity for that colorless existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the region of blind contentment, in which no moment of anguish ever visited her soul, in which she would never have the taste of life's delirium.” She slowly opened her azure eyes to commingle with the cobalt blue of Castiel’s, and together they were the sole illumination in the dimness of the hallway.

“That is lovely,” said Castiel softly, but Charlene could see it went deeper; he was moved. They stared at one another, grateful seconds turning uncomfortable as they processed their proximity and purpose and intent. 

She gave him one last squeeze, and then they released one another, putting space awkwardly back in its place. She brushed her hair back behind her ears, cleared her throat, and said, “You’ve seen the Collection. Now it’s time for the Gallery.” She pushed open the door and walked through, and Castiel followed.

Upon entering the room, Castiel was immediately hit with with a wave of mental disquiet. There was something about the quality of the air that caused an uncomfortable prickling of the skin, an impossible-to-scratch itch deep, deep down. The room was darker than the living room until Charlene switched on a lamp on a side table. In the center of the small room was an old brass bed covered in a nest of quilts and pillows, and on the side table with the lamp was a plastic bin filled with pill bottles and cases, next to it several partially full glasses of what appeared to be water. There was a rocking chair in the corner. Castiel pressed his lips together. _  Did Pearl rock Charlene there as a baby? _

Castiel’s eyes drifted to the wallpaper, which appeared to be in a much sorrier state than its counterpart in the hall. It looked shredded, layered, but as Castiel looked closer he saw that it wasn’t wallpaper at all. The wall was covered in hundreds and hundreds of pen and ink drawings.

They were all tacked in place in a seemingly random fashion, no attempts at angular unity. Castiel closed in on the wall opposite the bed, raising his fingers up to not-quite touch one of the larger pieces. His brows furrowed as he inspected it with scrutiny. In the center stood the figure of a hooded woman draped in long layers of delicately woven fabric that flowed down and along the ground on either side. Her eyes were hidden by a hood, but he could see long, black hair hanging down the sides of her face. One pale hand extended outward, as a warning, and one extended down to her hip where a large black dog stood, teeth bared in a snarl. Around her head circled a halo of crows mid-flight. She stood in front of an expansive tree composed of gnarled black lines that flowed down into roots and then up into the lines making up the draping of the woman’s robes. The drawing was simultaneously beautiful and terrifying and it caused Castiel to shudder unconsciously. 

He backed away and slowly looked around at the other drawings. Each one was a variation of the same theme. Sometimes there would be just the woman, some were of just crows, or dogs, or the same tree, in varying degrees of detail. After what felt like minutes of study, he jumped slightly as Charlene lightly touched his elbow with her hand.

Castiel’s hoarse voice came out thickly. “Who is this woman?” he asked, pointing to the central figure in the original drawing.

Charlene sighed softly and without looking away from the painting she said, “that’s my mother’s friend Lisa.”

“And who is Lisa?” he asked, low voice stretched with concern.

She continued staring at the drawing, her voice alternating inconsistently between rushed and deliberate. “My mom, you know... when I was little she used to hit me with things, push me to the ground and hold me there. It wasn’t that I did something wrong or that I was being punished; she’d say Lisa told her to do it. Lisa wanted me to be ready, to grow strong.” She turned, seeking Castiel’s gaze and finding it. “Cas,” she said seriously, “there is no Lisa. She’s not real.” she signed, and then took Castiel by the hand to bring him back into the living room. He followed willingly; he was processing the new information as quickly as he could.

Once back in the living room, she continued. “My dad laid down an ultimatum: Go to a shrink and get medicated, or he’d move away and take me with him. She eventually went to the doctor, and the meds they gave her seemed to even her out, but she got hyperfocused, obsessive. Lisa was gone, but that didn’t solve anything, not really.” 

“What did your father say when you told him you were coming here?” asked Castiel.

“He didn’t say anything, Cas. He died five years ago.” She pressed the color from her lips. “Heart attack. Were he still alive?” She gestured to the shelves. “This Greek mythology stuff was always a passion of hers, but after Lisa disappeared it got dialed up to eleven. My dad would take all her research away and hide it but she’d always find it again. One day…” she trailed off. She gestured with her head toward the back of the house. “C’mere, let me show you.”

Castiel followed again, through a small, barely used kitchen to a back door. She opened it up and found themselves near blinded by the late morning light. The back lot was much longer than the small plot of weeds in the front of the house. In the center of it was a huge sycamore tree. It was the one from Pearl’s drawings, Castiel was sure of it. It was at least sixty feet tall with a forty foot crown that shaded the entire lawn, inhibiting the growth of the spotty grass beneath. Its huge root system roiled under the earth, growing living boulders waiting to be tripped on. 

“My mom planted that tree the day my dad moved her out here. She called it my tree. ‘Charlene’s Tree’, or sometimes the ‘Offering Tree’.” She gave a sad shrug. “It was meant to protect me, I guess, some ancient Greek thing.”

She turned to the angel, low voice pulling with gravity. “Castiel, I’ve never told a single soul this, any of this. Do you understand? I never thought I would, could tell anyone. You are special, You know that, right?”

Castiel cleared his throat, and spoke in a voice that gravelled with insecurity. “I told you, I am not special. Just because I am an ange--”

“Cas, this has nothing to do with you being an angel,” she interrupted, eyes narrowed. “There is something innately… you. A quality you possess that I’ve never seen before. You have… perspective. Patience. You care deeply for humanity, for people like my mom, people like me. People like Sam and Dean.” She turned and placed a hand on either side of Castiel’s arms, as if to ground him. You don’t see flaws, you see people, and you love them wholly not in spite of their flaws, but  _ because  _ of them.”

Suddenly, a gust of wind shuddered through the yard, and the great tree groaned. The leaves whispered in a language all their own, and for just a moment a string of dizziness tangled Castiel’s thoughts and perceptions. He cleared it away with a small shake of his head. Somehow he had moved closer to Charlene; her arms bent at the elbows so that their torsos were mere inches apart. She was magnetic; he could feel the pull of her, a quiet, exquisite desperation had him tethered, taut and unbreakable.

Charlene’s whisper matched that of the trees. “One day, my dad cracked. He yelled, he screamed, he shoved my mom to the ground. It’s the strongest memory I have from when I was little. He locked her in the bathroom. He tore up her art, collected all of her books and papers, and brought it all out here...” she gestured slightly to the tree with a tilt of her head, though Castiel’s gaze was locked in place, “and he burned it. I remember her screaming from the bathroom, wailing, it sounded like an animal dying.” 

Tears started welling in her eyes again, but this time she made no effort to quell them. Her full lips trembled as she whispered, the strong line of her jaw flexed and slackened under her pale skin. As the wind picked up again, stands of raven hair blew across her face and her mazarine eyes flashed, oxidizing every coherent thought Castiel could muster. “He burned it all, and when it was nothing but ash, he just left. His face was blank, eyes wide. He left me here with her and didn’t come back until the next day.”

Castiel leaned forward, resting his forehead on hers without conscious effort. His mind and heart swirled with competing impulses, physical impossibilities, irrational desires and selfish, harming thoughts. He was simultaneously invigorated and crushed, wounded and won, breathless and still. His grace vibrated in tune with the universe yet discordant within himself. She closed her eyes, but he knew the blue was still there, still burning.

Finally, she spoke again, her voice but a breathless murmur, “I let her out of the bathroom. She took me to my tree; she tied me to it it. She was weeping, saying it was too soon, too early, that she was sorry.” Castiel could feel the warmth of her tears, hear their wetness in her voice. “She left me there all night with a handkerchief stuffed in my mouth. My dad came back the next day, found me, and took me to a motel. Then we left. Twenty years gone, but now,” her eyes flickered open, “I’m back.”

Suddenly, there was another notification from Castiel’s pocket that severed the tether between them, and they gasped as if they’d been holding their breath. Charlene released the angel and stepped away. Then, she said with indifferent softness, “You should really check that, Cas.”

Castiel cleared his throat and collected himself with a shrug of his shoulders. He pulled his phone from his pocket and saw four missed notifications, one from Sam, and three from Dean. Dean’s read:

_ Where are you? Need to meet. _

_ Trying to find Charlene's mom. Sam's being a little bitch. Could use assistance. _

_ I get it. You are not my blowing wind. You are the lightning. I'll leave you alone. Sorry. _

Castiel felt a strong pang of guilt as he looked up from his phone to Charlene, who had taken several steps toward the large, looming tree.

“Lisa is back too,” she said vacantly, “but mom doesn't talk about her. Just to her, when she thinks I'm not listening.”


	9. I Call Him Cas

“I am the worst boyfriend ever,” grumbled Sam as they crossed the threshold of Charlene’s apartment.

Dean chuckled, “Ain’t that the tru--” he cut himself off with a low, long whistle of astonishment. He looked around wide-eyed. “Boy, you weren’t kidding about the books!”

They were surrounded on all sides by Charlene’s vast library, stretching wall the wall, floor to ceiling. Dean turned in a circle, taking it all in, then walked over to a shelf where he pulled out _A Geological History of Kansas as it Pertains to Waylines_.

Sam eked out a small, half-smile and bit the corner of his lip.

Dean turned to him and held the book up, eyebrow raised. “Of course _you_ would think this is hot.”

“Wait until you see the bedroom,” smirked Sam.

Dean tilted his head down and stared at his brother through dark lashes. He tossed the book onto the futon and strode, perhaps a little too excitedly, down the hall to the bedroom.

“Where the hell is the friggin’ bed?” Sam heard his brother exclaim from the other room.

Sam chuckled to himself as he began to carefully comb the room for clues. Every book he moved, every paper he shuffled, filled him with a pang of guilt. He wanted to move quickly, lest Charlene return and catch them in the act. In the kitchen he found a small paper sorter, and in it he found several pieces of vanilla correspondence: pizza takeout coupon, power bill, pay stub. He pulled out the pay stub to examine it more closely.

Dean came around the corner, walked up, and snatched the paper from his hand. “Boy,” he started, “you really are a perv!” He examined the pay stub as Sam’s face flushed.

“Charlene Hunter?” exclaimed Dean, eyes rolling loudly. “You’ve _gotta_ be kiddin’ me. If you two get married, you _have_ to take her last name.” He handed the paper back to Sam, who took it, mouth slightly agape. Dean turned and started rifling through books and papers, running his finger along the rows and rows of book titles for something, anything. He seemed, to Sam, too cavalier, too casual. Almost happy-go-lucky.

Sam cleared his throat. “Uh, you seem to be in a good mood,” he stated, though it was more of a question.

“And why shouldn’t I be?” asked Dean casually, without turning to look back at his brother.

“Well, um…” Sam moved some books off a small, cardboard box with a lid, “have you heard back from Cas?”

“Nope,” replied Dean breezily, still scanning the shelves for he knew not what.

“Aren’t you getting worried?” asked Sam, voice free of teasing. He had tried to hand wave it away outside to soothe his brother, but he really was actually concerned, and wasn’t sure why Dean wasn’t. Sure, Cas would go off the reservation now and again, but he wouldn’t stonewall Dean for something as simple as dropping a friend off at her car. Either Charlene was in trouble, or Cas was in trouble, or there was something else going on that he didn’t want either him or Dean to know about. He knew Dean knew that, too.

Dean had pulled a book halfway off a shelf and then thought better, sliding it back into place. He turned toward his brother, lips pressed into a tight line. “Look, Sam,” he said gruffly. “I don’t know what is going on with Cas, and I’m trying to be cool about it because honestly, I don’t know _how_ I’m supposed to be right now. This is new friggin’ territory, alright?”

Sam slid the lid off the box and carefully set it aside. “Dean, I think you should call him. Him not answering me is one thing, but not answering you? After, you know… things? I can’t call Charlene, I don’t have her--”  
“Of _course_ you don’t have her number! Why would you?” Dean spat sarcastically.

“I’m serious, Dean. Call him. Hell, pray for him! He doesn’t answer then? Well, then we’ll know we have an actual problem on our hands rather than a simple misunderstanding.”

“Sam, we talked about this. That guy? Remember? That guy isn’t me,” Dean glowered.

Sam shot right back. “Yeah? Well, currently you’re _the guy_ so jacked up on his own misguided machismo that you'd rather look cool instead of making sure your boyfriend isn’t, you know, dead.”

The room went silent. Sam looked up from the box to see Dean, eyes emerald daggers aimed directly at him. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he said quietly.

Sam continued to engineer the insensitivity train full steam ahead. “Well, what do _you_ call someone who saves your body, mind, and soul, who sings you love ballads and feeds you pie and apparently fucks you on our map table?”

Without missing a beat, and with the slightest raise of his eyebrows, he said, “Cas. I call him Cas.” With that, he turned and continued to scan the shelves.

Sam shook his head in disgust. Dean was so stubborn, but then Cas was too. They danced circles around each other for so long, how could Sam think that a mere twenty-four hours could change their step? He began to rummage through the box and found two rubber banded bundles, one of letters and one of photographs. He carefully slid the rubber band off of the letters. They were all addressed to Charlene, but a Charlene Cassidy rather than Hunter. They were postmarked from their current zip code, all from a P. Cassidy, 121 Locust Street, Lebanon, KS. The lettering was wild and looping, written in practiced haste. He shuffled through them to find the most recent one, post dated roughly seven month earlier. He slid the papers out carefully, and noted that they were a heavier grade than normal letter paper, more like sketch paper. The words were scrawled in the same, wild looping with a heavy ink pen that bled in places.

_My Dearest Charlene,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I know it has been some time since I last wrote; things have been very busy here at home. Lyssa and I have been excitedly preparing for your arrival. So much to do._

_My heart aches to see you again. I know that I failed you as a mother; I let my brain fight my heart and I know the conflict wounded you greatly. It is my biggest regret, driving you and your father away. I send him letters, but he never replies. No one replied, not until you wrote me back on my birthday last year. Seeing your name on that letter was like finding a door out of a lightless room; it revived my stagnant senses and renewed me with purpose. Now, I will get to see the strong young woman that has grown out of my beautiful baby girl, my Offering to an undeserving world._

_I know with you here the world will finally make sense again. Your return heralds the return of something even greater, of rebirth, of strength, of power that has laid in wait for far too long._

_We will see you soon._

_Undying love,_

_Mom_

_That’s strange_ , thought Sam. _No mention of cancer at all._ He pulled out another letter, but it was more of the same. Lyssa, awaiting arrival, greater purpose. No cancer whatsoever.

“Uh, Dean,” gulped Sam, I think I’ve found something.”

“Yeah, well, me too,” said Dean, voice perturbed. He walked over to meet his brother, journal in hand.

“Are you reading her diary?” Sam asked in distaste.

“I don’t think it’s her diary,” replied Dean flatly. He flipped to the front page, where a looping inscription read: _To my Charlene, with love. - Mom._ He kept flipping page after page, and Sam could see the book was filled with pen and ink drawings of dogs, trees, crows. There were many drawings of a woman in long black robes, eyes obscured by hoods. Every drawing was accompanied by ancient Greek lettering. Sam could read some of it, but not all of it.

Λύσσα έρχεται.

Είναι καιρός για την προσφορά.

“What the hell does that say?” asked Dean gruffly.

Sam took the book from him, scrutinizing it closely. “It names someone, someone I don't recognize, and it says they are coming. And that it's time for the… offering.” He pulled out his phone and snapped a few photos of the inscriptions, then handed the book back to Dean. He started thumbing the phone quickly and with purpose.

“What are you doing, man?” asked Dean impatiently. “We don’t have time for you to check your friggin’ email.”

“Shut up, Dean,” muttered Sam, not looking up from his phone.

Dean let the book drop to his side as he scowled at his brother. Finally, Sam looked up with eyes wide under a furrowed brow. “You really need to call Cas, and you need to call him _now_.”

“What? Why?” asked Dean, gruff voice betrayed by the slightest squeak of anxiety.

Sam pocketed his phone and grabbed the book from Dean, flipping it open to one of the more elaborate drawings. “Because this,” he said, pointing to the first inscription, “says ‘Lyssa is coming.”

“And this?” asked Dean, pointing to the second inscription.

“That one says, ‘it is time for the offering’.”

“Wait, what? Who the hell is Lyssa?” asked Dean, confused. “This is just a sick woman’s crazy talk!”

Sam handed the book back to Dean and strode over to the box with the letters. He grabbed them and waved them in front of Dean. “These are letters from Pearl, asking Charlene to come back home. Nowhere in these letters does it say anything about cancer, or any other illness.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, waiting for more explanation. “And?”

“You said it yourself, before in the hall.”

Dean threw the book on the futon and closed the distance between them. “Wait, are you on Team Dave now? A witch? Really?”

“Maybe not a witch, but something else bad.” Sam swallowed, jaw clenching. “I looked up Lyssa.” She’s an ancient Greek deity, older than Zeus and the primary pantheon. She was the daughter of Nyx, the goddess of the night, who in turn was born out of Khaos.”

Dean’s voice lowered. “So, bad then?”

“Lyssa is the goddess of madness, of blind rage.”

“And I’m guessing you got that all from Google?” said Dean cynically.

Sam ignored him, pulling the rubber band off the stack of photographs. He flipped through them, and saw they were pictures of a little girl with striking black hair, smiling happily. In one picture, she had on a party hat and sat in front of a birthday cake with eight candles, and next to her sat woman who bore a striking resemblance to Charlene. Her eyes looked tired, her face gaunt, but she smiled anyhow, wide and genuine. In another photo, she was climbing a sycamore tree, with a tall blonde man standing at the bottom, encouraging her. In another, she sat on the floor of a living room, a large illustrated copy of _D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths_ in her lap. There were about fifty pictures all told, some of Charlene as a baby with her mother in a rocking chair, some with her ‘helping’ to prepare dinner, all the normal childhood photography tropes. Sam smiled as he came across one of Charlene as a gangly eight or nine year old, standing in front of the big sycamore, hands reaching to the sky with a grin of exultation. Suddenly, Dean snatched it from his hand and brought it up to his face to scrutinize it.

“Dude, what gives?” said Sam in frustration.

He held out the photograph and stabbed at it with his finger. In the background by the tree, was a streaky shadow. Sam blinked a few times and pulled out another picture, Charlene as a toddler on a blanket in the back yard, staring intently at two crows pecking crumbs from the grass not two feet away. In the back, off to the left, Sam could see the same shadow. He flipped to a new photo, one of Charlene doing a cartwheel, and he could see a shadow close enough to touch Charlene, to guide her.

Dean’s attention drifted as he let the photograph he was holding drop to the floor. He wandered over to a shelf and picked up a small, framed photograph of Charlene, smiling wide from the deck of a ferry boat, wind whipping her inky black hair across her face. Directly next to her streaked a dark smudge, identical to the others.

“I think I’m gonna call Cas now,” muttered Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if my Greek is not quite right.


	10. No Need to Take a Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music reference: Angel of the Morning by Juice Newton  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HTzGMEfbnAw

Castiel felt another gust of wind pick up and swirl around them, sending the tree into a fresh chorus of murmurs. His mind was clouded with competing thoughts. He felt disoriented, the pulse of his blood in his veins fluttered against his skin. Charlene walked up to the towering tree and rested her hand on it. Slowly, she tipped her head forward and made contact with her forehead. She closed her eyes and Castiel could see her breathe in time with each air current. He could see her personal defense weapon, a nasty kerambit sheathed behind her, clipped to her belt. She appeared to be listening to words that made sense to no one else but her. He slowly walked up to join her, and rested a gentle hand between her shoulder blades. She opened her eyes and tipped her head slightly to look at him, still resting against the patchy grey bark of the tree. He eyes were dull and glassy, the blue sparkle lost in a haze.

“We should go, Charlene,” he said, voice gravelly with intent. “Your mother is not here.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Something is not… right with this place.”

She closed her eyes again. “I want to help her,” she whispered. She said she needed me, needed me to come home. When she called, she told me that she went looking for me. Now she’s gone.”

Castiel gently rubbed the flat of his hand in a smooth, comforting circle. “I think I can help her. If we find her, I think I can… heal her.”

With that, Charlene’s eyes flew open and blinked rapidly. She let her head rise from tree, looking at Castiel with eyes of fear rather than gratitude. “Cas, she, you can’t…” she trailed off, muted by panic.

“It is okay, Charlene,” he said, trying to approximate a comforting tone. “I know she does not have cancer. I know death, and I do not see evidence of its presence here.”

She continued to blink, though her breaths came slower, more evenly paced.

“Her illness, this madness, I think I can alleviate at least some of it. I would like to try, if you’ll let me.”

Her voice came out a hoarse whisper. “I don’t think you can, Castiel.” She reached down and took Castiel’s free hand, flattening his palm against the tree.

His eyelids fluttered as a coursing heat built in his palm and burned down his arm. It was arousing; ecstatic waves of anger and exhilaration tried to force their way into his body, and the struggle to withstand their onslaught made him see red. He pushed back with his grace and tried to break contact with the tree but he was frozen, locked in the grasp of something he’d never felt before. His consciousness rolled in a storm surge of yeses and noes, and the whispering of the leaves became the cacophonous roar of a gladiatorial arena. He tilted his head against a will that was no longer his, and rested it against the tree.

Somehow, above the roar, he heard Charlene’s voice, a clear bell ringing through the red. “Don’t leave me, Castiel. Stay here with me. She says peace will come when you stop fighting.”

Suddenly, Castiel’s mind cleared as he heard the unmistakable ringtone Dean had gifted him months ago.

_There'll be no strings to bind your hands,_   
_Not if my love can't bind your heart,_   
_And there's no need to take a stand,_ _  
For it was I who chose to start,_

He ripped his hand from the bark of the tree and stumbled backwards, falling prone on his backside and landing hard on one of the gnarled, exposed roots.

_I see no need to take me home,_ _  
_ _I'm old enough to face the dawn._

He gasped for air as his vision cleared, and he could see Charlene still pressed to the tree, chest heaving with agonized, angry breaths. The wind came harder and both Charlene and the tree groaned.

Castiel patted himself in a panic, searching for his phone, and then saw it on the ground near the base of the tree where it had fallen out of his pocket. Suddenly, he heard a voice from behind him, low and lilting like Charlene’s but tired and worn as if from decades of screaming. “My darling,” the voice said comfortingly, “You brought him, just like she said you would.” Then the source of the voice, a tall, willowy woman with long black hair strode past him. She was dressed in a black dress and a worn, grey peacoat.

_Just call me angel of the morning, angel,_   
_Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby,_   
_Just call me angel of the morning, angel,_ _  
Then slowly turn away from me._

She went up to Charlene, ran a comforting hand through her short, raven hair and cooed softly into her ear, words Castiel could not make out. She reached down, picked up Castiel’s phone, and with considerable ease snapped it in two as a wicked grin spread across her face.

Castiel could hear the sound of crows growing louder, voluminous cackling that joined in chorus with the wind in the leaves. He could see tens, no, hundreds of them swoop in and land on the branches of the great sycamore like a plague darkening the sky. The older woman, who he assumed was Pearl, began to laugh softly to herself, and leaned backward, resting against the tree trunk. Castiel scrambled to his feet. He had to do something, anything to break Charlene from her trance. He took a deep breath and ran straight for her. _If I can just take her away, back to her apartment_ , he thought desperately, furiously pumping his arms and legs as he quickly closed the distance began them. He dove, wrapping his arms around her waist, then flew. Then there was a flutter, and whiteness, and nothing else.


	11. Flicker

The brothers ran down the apartment steps, Dean first with his phone pressed against his ear, Sam behind, slamming the apartment door behind him. They blew through the exit door and hustled toward the Impala.

“Dammit, Cas! Answer!” yelled Dean into the phone with frustration. He reached into his pocket and fished out the keys, then stopped in his tracks, yanking the phone from his head with a wince. He quickly brought it back to his ear. “Cas? Cas! Goddammit!” He tore it away again and looked at Sam, eyes fearful in a way Sam rarely saw. 

“Dean…?” 

“It went dead, Sammy. There was a screech, then nothing.” He threw the keys to Sam, who in his surprise barely caught them.  _ Dean always drives _ , he thought with confusion. Dean ran around to the passenger side and yanked open the door. 

Sam was frozen in place. “Sam!” shouted Dean gruffly. “Drive! You know the address! I need to do something I shoulda done an hour ago.” With that, he slid into the car and slammed the door, and Sam ran to catch up. He jumped in, jammed the key into the ignition, and turned the engine over. He threw the car into reverse as Dean closed his eyes, folded his hands, and prayed. 

“Cas,” he said, husky voice betrayed by an edge of panic, “I don't know what's going on, but you need to get your feathery ass--”

Sam accelerated quickly backwards just as Castiel appeared out of nowhere, landing directly behind them. The Impala crashed into him, sending him flying backwards several feet. His head made a sickening thud as it hit the asphalt. Sam immediately slammed on the brakes and put the car into park. 

Dean's eyes flew open. “What the hell was that?” he exclaimed. He looked in the side view mirror and his eyes went wide. He twisted around in his seat, saw Castiel prone on the ground, and started flailing, desperately trying to open the door and scramble out of the car. “Did you just run over Cas?!” he shouted as he lept from the car and ran toward the prone and motionless angel. 

Sam jumped out and turned to see Dean dive toward Castiel and kneel down next to him, eyes glassy with fear. Dean did a frantic pat down, checking for injuries, then brought his hands up to his angel's face, gingerly examining his head. He saw a splatter of blood on the ground, and he reached behind Castiel's head to feel a wet gash. He pulled his hand away and saw that his fingers were coated in crimson. He shakily brought his fingers down to his friend's neck to check for a pulse and he did detect a faint one; Castiel was unconscious, but not dead. 

“Cas, Cas,” he said in a panicked whisper, “Wake up pal. You gotta wake up! I need you right now.” He delicately placed his hands on either side of the angel's face and patted his cheek. “Cas? Cas!” Dean cried out. “No, no no no,” he murmured as he gently brought his forehead down to not quite touch Castiel's. He suddenly sat up and jerked around to see his brother standing but a few feet behind, mouth slightly open, face guilt-stricken. 

“A little help here?!” Dean called angrily. 

Sam snapped out of his stupor and ran over to his brother. He kneeled to the ground, eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Dean, this makes no sense! I barely hit him!”

Dean shot daggers from his eyes and Sam winced. 

“I,  I mean,” he corrected, stammering, “by angel standards, that was just a tap! No way that should have taken him down! If anything, it's the car that should be busted! Something else is happening here!”

“Sammy, we gotta get him outta here, gotta get him to the bunker,” Dean said, voice determined and strangely flat. 

Sam swallowed. “But… what about Charlene?”

Dean’s eyes flew wide with fury. “Are you friggin’ kidding me?! Sam, this is  _ Cas _ ! You know, Cas?  _ Angel  _ of the friggin’  _ Lord _ ? The best friend we’ve ever had! Where the fuck are your priorities?!”

“Something’s wrong with him, Dean!” shouted Sam right back.

“Fuckin’A something’s wrong with him!” Dean spat. “That’s why we need to get him somewhere safe!”

Sam stood up suddenly, face twisted with frustration. “If this has something to do with Charlene, with Pearl, we might not be able to undo it without them! Maybe the longer he’s like this, the worse he gets!”

Just then, Castiel groaned softly. Dean whipped his head around to see the angel’s eyelids flutter, terror twisting his face. Dean gasped audibly with relief, and without thinking he dipped down to kiss the angel softly, lips trembling with cosmic gratitude. The angel moaned softly into Dean’s mouth, and Dean hummed in return. His angel was back.

Suddenly, Castiel’s flew open and his hands were upon Dean, not in fondness but in fear. He shoved Dean backwards and pushed himself up onto his elbows, breaths coming out in ragged gasps. He started to look wildly about, searching for something, someone. 

“Ch-Charlene?” he panted raggedly. He grabbed Dean by the collar and shook him. “Where is she?!” he demanded, terrified voice gritty and desperate.

“She’s not here, Cas!” called Sam, taking a step forward. “You just appeared here by yourself! And then I… hit you with the car,” he said, his own eyes hitting the pavement in shame.

“No… not possible...the angel gravelled, wild eyes still searching. “I had her, I had her and tried to take her and now--” he hissed with pain, pulling Dean’s collar harder as he brought his free hand up, pressing his palm into his eyebrow.

“Easy, easy buddy,” Dean soothed, “you took a hit, but I’m here now, I’ve got you.”

Suddenly, Castiel flashed away in a burst of static causing Dean to fall forward toward where his friend once laid.

“... the hell?” Dean muttered in confusion, pushing himself back up and scrambling to his feet. Suddenly, there was another flutter and crackle, and he whipped around to see Castiel on his hands and knees, shaking his head. He looked up, blue eyes wide, lost, and glassy, and shrank back when Dean took a step toward him.

“Cas…” said Dean softly. “It’s okay… it’s me…” he reached out toward the angel, who covered his face with his arm and vanished again, only to appear once more a few feet to the right. He stood, staggered, and hissed again in pain, crushing his eyelids shut and doubling over. Castiel staggered forward shakily, wide eyed. 

_Why is he runnin’ from me?_ Dean's heart ached. _Why am I such a friggin’ idiot? If I'd of just called him, swallowed my pride… you_ _did this, Winchester. This is on you._

He rushed forward to embrace him, steady him, and just as he had one arm under him, Castiel… flickered. It was as if he tried to fly away but couldn’t. He flashed again, and Dean could feel the static coursing up his arm, a burn that cooled to numbness. Castiel dug his fingers into Dean’s hand and tore his arm away with his considerable strength. He took several steps and broke into a run, then vanished, only to reappear a few feet ahead and vanish again. He reappeared once more and fell to his knees. He shook, vibrating in and out of their plane in white, feathery flashes. He curled his head down and covered himself with his hands. Dean ran to him again and fell down to his knees, unsure of what to do. Sam stood, dumbfounded, completely paralyzed at the sight of his brother wracked with helplessness.

Dean leaned down and could see the Castiel was sobbing, tears falling, but in his inconsistent corporeality the tears seemed to float; with every flash they would rewind back to his eyes, only to fall again, never hitting the pavement. 


	12. The Tree

Castiel grasped Charlene tightly, trying to bring her to safety through the infinite whiteness of the celestial plane, but something was wrong. He could feel himself tearing, being dragged backwards. It was as if Charlene was an anchor tethering him in a sea of red. He could feel her in his arms, and then not, but then again she was there, and then not. His vision swam with crimson around the edges, and he could see images flashing. A tree, then whiteness, Charlene’s face, then whiteness. He could hear the laughing of a woman cutting in and out through the static like a radio with spotty reception. He pulled with all his might, and he could see more images, new ones of a parking lot, and a black car,  _ Dean’s car _ .  _ You can do this, Castiel, pull harder, tear her away.  _

He struggled to focus, molecules vibrating so fiercely that they threatened to combust. He felt himself expand and contract in a sickening rhythm, his consciousness throbbing and stuttering like an arrhythmic heart about to arrest. He tried to center his grace, manifest his wings, concentrate and focus it on a single thought. 

_ Dean.  _ He pictured Dean's easy smile, the flash of his green eyes sharing secret tales of mischief with Castiel alone. He imagined their foreheads pressed together, hands clasped in one another's. He imagined them alone together in the infinite peaceful whiteness of Dean's subconscious, with the tinny sound of Robert Plant’s voice wafting through the speakers of a cassette player laying forgotten at their feet. Dean was the calm, cool center, the touchstone. Slowly, his great, black, prismatic wings spread out behind him, cracking with celestial intent. He encouraged himself as he knew Dean would.  _ Get the the car,  _ focus  _ Castiel! _

Suddenly, the song started to cut in and out, and the whiteness all around them took on a tinge of pink. Castiel watched in horror as Dean’s smile curled into a sneer, his pupils blown wide, swallowing the green in black. The air churned with crackling red miasma, and Castiel recoiled as the figure of his Dean crackled and flashed, then disappeared completely, replaced instead with the great sycamore made all the larger by the encroaching red haze. The redness intensified, and began to coil around his arms, legs, and wings like pythons. They travelled toward his abdomen, crushing the sense from his body and threatening to tear his wings from his torso. 

Just then, another tendril of vermillion shot out from the heart of the tree and poured into his mouth, filling him, smothering his grace, choking him with paranoia and delusion. He sealed his eyes shut and contracted all his muscles in an effort stoke his grace, and with one last furious burst he exploded through to the material plane, landing in the parking lot behind the Impala, delirious and staggering. He looked up just in time to seen the car charge backwards into him, and then everything went black. 

In the blackness, there was only lack. No sound, no red haze, no feeling at all. It was as if every atom of his body had diffused, surrendering to the very nothing from whence they came. But then, ever so faintly, he heard voices. Heated voices, arguing, yelling about something. He could make out words.  _ Bunker _ .  _ Angel _ .  _ Charlene _ . 

He could feel his face tingle and burn, heat pressing into it from some unseen source. Suddenly, his memory was met with flashes of the red, coiling miasma forcing its way down his throat, smothering him, permeating every cell with a cloying burn. His eyes flew open and he was met with bright daylight, the feeling of solid ground underneath, but his face still felt smothered. He flailed, grasping for a handhold, and freed his mouth to speak. 

“Ch-Charlene?” he gasped, “where is she?!” he whipped his head around frantically in an attempt to ascertain his surroundings. 

He heard a voice say, “She’s not here, Cas! You just appeared here by yourself! And then I… hit you with the car.”

“No… not possible…” he mumbled to himself. “I had her, I had her and tried to take her and now--” his head suddenly flashed in pain, a deep red clouded his vision. He pressed his hand to his face in an attempt to push it away, but he realized now that whatever had held him back before… he'd brought it with him through to the other side. 

“Easy, easy buddy,” he heard a familiar voice say. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes, and his gaze met… 

_ Dean _ . 

“You took a hit, but I’m here now, I’ve got you.”

Castiel’s relief quickly slipped away as he saw Dean's look of concern twist wickedly, green eyes going black. He shook his head to clear away the hallucination, but the haze of red returned, creeping into his periphery. He knew he was tainted; he needed to get away from Dean lest he passed on whatever it was he carried through the void.  _ I need to be contained _ , he thought in desperation. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fly, only to find himself transported but a few feet away. He was down on all fours, the ground beneath him boiling, tendrils of red creeping through the cracks. 

“Cas…” he turned to see Dean slowly reaching toward him, voice a reverberating leer, “it’s okay… it’s me…” He reached toward Castiel, who covered his face with his arm in fear. He flew again, only a few more feet, and then suddenly Dean was upon him, his body oozing red fog that tangled in Castiel’s limbs.  He tore himself free and broke off in a run. He kept trying to fly and failing, as all around him huge sycamore trees started erupting from the asphalt, obstructing his path no matter where he looked. They blotted out the daylight, and he could here a murder of crows erupt into a chorus of ominous cackling. He panicked, air merely tattered shreds in his lungs, as every attempt to flee the terrestrial plane was met with a violent, crimson tug back to earth. He dropped to his knees and curled into ball, flickering alone in the sanguine dusk of abject terror. He was trapped in a loop of madness, utterly alone. All he could do was weep.


	13. Guardian Angel

Dean kneeled next to his friend, eyes darting over his quavering form as it flashed in and out of the terrestrial plane. His heart ached, pulse chasing adrenaline through his veins.  Castiel was clearly terrified out of his wits, seeing things that weren’t there, feeling emotions based on some alternative reality that no one else was privy to. This was Castiel’s attempt at fleeing, trying to fly away to some other locale but somehow tied to this one.

Dean laid down on his side, trying to get closer to Castiel’s face, and whispered, “Angel, can you hear me?”

Castiel moaned in terror, an anguished sound made guttural due to his semi corporeality. Dean’s breathing became more labored, and tears pressed behind his eyes upon seeing his beautiful friend so broken, so helpless. He gently ran his fingers through Castiel’s soft, sable hair and was met with thousands of prickly electric shocks. The angel shuddered and moaned again.

“Shhh, shh, shh,” Dean hushed, trying to calm and comfort the angel. “Castiel, Cas, I’m here, If you can hear me, come back. Follow my voice.”

Sam paced around, back and forth behind his brother, brows furrowed, jaw clenching. “Dean,” he said with urgency, “we need to get him out of here. We need to get to Pearl’s house.” He walked hesitantly up to Dean and Castiel, knelt down, and tried to measure his voice. “It’s the only way to help him. We don’t know enough about what we’re facing, we can’t leave him here, and if we go all the way back to the bunker we may be too late.” He placed what he hoped to be a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. Dean was unresponsive, and instead continued to gently stroke Castiel’s hair as it flickered in and out of existence. “Dean,” whispered his brother hoarsely, “you know I’m right.”

Dean took a deep breath and slowly propped himself up. He turned to Sam, eyes wet and lips pressed together to prevent them from trembling. Sam had never, ever seen his brother like this, so broken up, so scared. Sam had never realized until now how heavily Dean relied on Castiel’s cold and thorny stoicism. After years of trauma, death, and loss, Dean had come to depend on Castiel as a constant. He knew that no matter what happened, Castiel would be there. Until he wasn’t. Dean’s guardian angel needed a guardian angel, and Dean was beginning to realize that he was a woefully inadequate substitute.

“And how, do you suggest, we do that?” Dean asked hoarsely.

* * *

 

Castiel could feel the trees closing in around him, the red haze rising and swallowing him as he lay prone on the ground. Any light that managed to pierce through the canopy of trees was swallowed by the redness, imbuing the sycamores with an unearthly, sinister glow. He was so tired, so exhausted from trying to fly away, from trying to pull at the crimson tethers that held him to this place.

_Where was this place? Think, Castiel, breathe and think. If you are stuck here, better to know where here actually is._

He uncovered his head and placed his hands flat on the ground. He tried to take a calming breath, but found himself choking and wheezing on the noxious vapor. _Stand up, Castiel. Stand up and think._ With great effort, he forced himself to standing, shaking and coughing, finally allowing himself to be fully present, fully aware. He tried again to take a deep breath, and found that now he could, and upon exhalation he could see the slightest puff of celestial white swirl amongst the redness.

* * *

 

Dean stared at Sam in helplessness, and suddenly the pinpricks of electricity that had caressed his hand ceased. He quickly looked down to Castiel to see his flickering had subsided. He'd gone limp on the ground, still breathing but now in shallow, measured inhalations.

“Cas?” Dean whispered anxiously. “You with me, pal?” Castiel did not reply. Dean shook him slightly, repeating his name again with more urgency. “Cas!” Dean carefully rolled him over to his back and ran a shaky, calloused hand down the angel's stubbly cheek. Cupping his jaw, he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss inside the shell of his ear and whispered, “I've got you angel. Wait for me. I'll find you.” He turned to Sam with pleading eyes.

“Let's go,” Sam said, voice strangely calm, calm for Dean. He knew now what he needed to do. He needed to be the angel for both of them, whatever it took. “Let's get him to the car.”


	14. Go Ask Alice

Castiel looked around, trying to discern a path through the trees, through the mist. The wind picked up, rustling the branches, and Castiel thought he detected a familiar voice in its whisper, Dean’s voice. “I'll find you,” it sighed. 

He looked down to center himself and realized that his coat and suit jacket were gone; his tie was loosened and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. He felt almost naked, stripped of his armor. Castiel bit down on the corner of his lip thoughtfully.  _ How can he find me if I do not even know where I am? This is not heaven, nor hell, nor purgatory. This place is entirely new. Think, Castiel. Remember.  _

He walked up to one of the sycamores and hesitantly, gingerly placed his hand upon the trunk.  _ This is where it started, Charlene against the tree.  _

He closed his eyes and pictured himself there with her, the strange quality of the air, his racing thoughts, the uncanny magnetic attraction. He remembered not being able to think clearly in the presence of the tree; in fact his focus had wavered all throughout the house. His disorientation had increased exponentially with the arrival of Pearl, as did Charlene’s.  _ These are only pieces of a whole, Castiel. What is the larger picture? _

Suddenly, the quality of the air changed. A chilly tingle moved past him, through him, causing him to shiver. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of white move behind one of the trees. He instinctively walked toward the movement in cautious pursuit. He crept quietly using the trees as cover, until he reached a circular clearing, and in the center stood a giant sycamore, magnitudes larger than the one in Pearl’s yard. It rose out of the incarnadine vapor and upward into the haze, so tall that Castiel could not determine where, or if, it ended. The limbs of the great tree were covered in a boundless murder of crows, like a canopy of inky black leaves that cast the base of the tree into darkness. 

From his hiding spot behind one of the trees on the periphery of the clearing, Castiel noted that not a single bird a made a noise of any kind. Instead, they hopped about, giving both the tree and the shadow on the ground an unnerving, seething quality. Suddenly, the figure of a man walked into the clearing, easy smile on his face. All of the crows diverted their attention to the man, following him with their beady eyes as he strolled up to the tree and casually leaned into it with his shoulder. He was dressed all in white, white suit coat and trousers, white dress shirt tucked in but with the top two buttons undone. He was looking down at his wrist, checking the time, just as the crows looked down, checking him. Castiel peered out to get a better look, and as he did, the man looked up and made eye contact.

_ Lucifer.  _

Castiel’s stomach lurched as Lucifer raised a single hand and wiggled his fingers in greeting. He flashed an easy smile and then disappeared from view as he slipped behind the tree. 

_ Not possible,  _ thought Castiel, blinking rapidly.  _ How can he be here? Where  _ is  _ here?  _ He stepped out from behind the tree and tentatively moved through the clearing. He knew that, wherever he was, that he was not seeing the real Lucifer. So then, what was he seeing?  _ Maybe I am meant to follow? _

He took a breath and girded his loins, then walked with purpose up to the large tree. The crows began to hop about on their perches in eerily silent curiosity as he approached, sending shadows rippling over his body. He broke into a trot as he came around the tree to find that his brother had disappeared. What was there, however, was a sizable wooden door on the side of the tree. It was hewn from rough, tarred planks, bound in iron. It was partially open, and a cursory peek inside revealed only blackness. 

“You really should hurry,” purred a velvety voice that echoed from inside. “You don't want to be late.”

He took a deep breath.  _ Bad is better than nothing,  _ thought Castiel as he carefully opened the door and stepped through. 


	15. Shell-shocked to Hell

Dean and Sam carefully lifted Castiel from the asphalt and carried him to the car. Dean climbed through the rear passenger side and pulled Castiel into the back seat on top of him, resting his friend's head in his lap as Sam ran around to close all of the doors. Sam jumped into the driver's seat and mumbled, “121 Locust Drive,” under his breath as he turned the key in the ignition. He put the car in gear and gunned the engine, squealing out of the parking lot and onto the main road. 

Dean gently ran his fingers through Castiel’s sweat-matted hair with his right hand and tightly clasped the angel’s hand with his left. He kept his eyes fixed on Castiel’s face, looking for any sign of movement, of consciousness. “Where are you, angel?” he mumbled. 

“Where? You think he's somewhere else?” Sam asked anxiously from the front seat as he sped down the main drag. 

“I, I dunno, Sammy,” winced Dean. “I just know he was trying to fly away, to get away from something, but he couldn't.” Then he croaked hoarsely, “it wouldn't let him.”

Sam’s heart ached. All he wanted was for his brother to be happy, to finally have something good, and for about twelve hours, he did. Twelve good hours out of, what? Three hundred thousand? And now it looked to be nearing an end because of Sam. He had done this, had brought Charlene into their lives. He had been so careless, so cavalier, so selfish, and now they were all paying the price. He clenched his jaw and sniffed away a tear. He couldn’t change what happened, but he had to help. He owed Dean that much.

“When he woke up he was talking about Charlene, about carrying her away,” said Sam, trying to piece things together. 

Dean didn’t speak for a moment, stoking Sam’s anxiety. “Sam,” said Dean morosely, “I’m sorry about Charlene. Cas, I know he did his best. Hell, he tried so much harder than I did, and if I would’ve just fucking listened to you and prayed for him then none of this would have happened.”

Sam furrowed his eyebrows as he took a hard, skidding right, ignoring a stop sign completely. “Dean, this is not your fault!” he exclaimed, taking a quick glance into the backseat before returning his eyes to the arterial road his was barrelling down at fifty miles per hour. “I am the one who brought Charlene into our lives! This is on me!”

“You’re wrong there, Sammy,” Dean replied. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Cas brought her into our lives, remember? And Charlene? She brought him into mine. Knowing Cas, he was probably trying to save her from something. Or someone. Fly her to us, to safety.”

“From Pearl? The Offering?”

“I dunno,” he said, squeezing Castiel’s hand. “Something must have had its claws in her real good to resist Cas, that's for damn sure. And whatever it was, well it shell-shocked him to hell.”

Sam checked on them in the rear view mirror, brows knitted in concern. “He was delirious, seeing things that weren't there.”

“Exactly. Out of his friggin’ mind with terror. It's gotta be that… what did you call her?”

“Lyssa.”

Dean nodded solemnly. “She took him. She has him.”

“So, what do we do?”

Dean made eye contact with Sam in the mirror, green eyes flashing. Then he said, voice gruff with malice, “I'm going to get him back, and you’re going to help me.”


	16. We're All Mad Here

Castiel stepped through the door and into the darkness, and suddenly a cold rush of wind came up from behind, pushing him forward and slamming the door behind him. With the hazy red sliver of light gone, Castiel felt a panicked wave of vertigo crash over him. He groped in front of him, out to his sides, and felt nothing. He turned back around, searching for the door, and again he found nothing. After staggering in the dark for a minute, the hammering of his blood in his brain reached an unbearable crescendo and he dropped to a crouch in order to feel something solid, the ground under his hands. 

“Castiel,” he heard the soft voice of his brother call out tauntingly, “now that will not do. Are you not an Angel of the Lord? Quit cowering on the ground like a toad.”

“But…” quavered Castiel, “I cannot see.”

He heard Lucifer chuckle, “then turn on the light.”

Suddenly, the ground beneath Castiel gave way and he felt himself falling, plummeting down, down, down through the blackness. He could feel the wind whipping through his hair, tearing at his shirt and tie, and he flailed desperately in an attempt to grab something, anything. 

_ Turn on the light. _

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath, struggling to coalesce his grace, unsure if he actually could. This place, whatever it was, weakened and stretched him. He felt tiny sparks inside of him, but nothing would ignite. He feared he’d fall forever, never to return home, never to see his Dean again.

_ Dean. _

He could see Dean in his mind’s eye. His easy smile, the smattering of freckles that highlighted his cheekbones, the sultry green eyes that always seemed to be able to see him, inside of him. He felt the sparks intensify, a white hot heat building up inside of him. He allowed his eyelids to flutter open and was relieved to see that his chest radiated with the light of his grace, dimly illuminating his surroundings.

As far as he could tell, he fell through a great expansive nothing, as his light failed to illuminate much past the span of his arm’s length. At least he could see himself, substantiate his presence. His tie kept flapping upwards, smacking him in his face, and in a sudden bout of frustration he tugged it off and cast it away. His panic returned, and as it did his light began to dim. 

_ Focus, Castiel. Charlene needs you. Dean and Sam are in danger.  _

Then he heard Dean's voice whisper in the back of his mind. 

_ I believe in you.  _

Castiel flexed and released, and a flare of grace pulsated outward like a shockwave, finally reaching to the outward edges of the burrow through which he fell. He felt a sudden slowing, as if the burst of grace was a brake lever easing his descent; the fluttering of his shirt lessened and then ceased, and he was able to look around. 

Clocks. The tunnel was lined with hundreds and hundreds of clock faces of varying size but lacking numbers. There were only tick marks all the way around until it reached the top of  the hour, where instead of a twelve there was only the silhouette of a tree. All of the hands read the same time. 

_ A quarter to tree. _

Despite his bewilderment, Castiel was pleased with his pun, but the pleasure distracted him from the task at hand. His light blinked out, and he began to fall again. His heart tried to squeeze its way out of his mouth as he flailed, but then suddenly he found himself standing solidly on a black and white checkered floor in a great, high-ceilinged room. He he struggled to collect both his breath and bearings arms his eyes darted about. 

The walls of the room stretched up two floors, with a balcony that ran along the entire outside edge. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with books, thousands and thousands of books. The room was illuminated with elaborate candelabras that hung from the ceiling, but the primary source of illumination came from a great, roaring fireplace, the height of a man and twice as wide. Silhouetted against it were two wing backed chairs, and Castiel could see that one of them was occupied. 

Castiel tread quietly forward into the great room as the fire caused his shadow to dance erratically. He approached the chairs, and when he was about ten feet away he heard a familiar, grating, sing-song voice come from one of the chairs.

“Oh, you’re here!” exclaimed the voice. “I figured you’d be late, so I thought I’d just sit and wait.” The figure turned in the chair, nothing but a dark silhouette haloing a large and twisted grin.

_ Metatron _ .

The former archangel rose, a book in hand, and shuffled toward Castiel. His curly mop of hair stuck out every which way, and his face bore a bit more than a five o’clock shadow. He was dressed in slacks and wingtip shoes, a sky blue dress shirt under a brown sweater vest, and his neck was adorned with a navy and white plaid bow tie. Perched on the end of his nose were a pair of reading glasses. He stared Castiel down over the tops of his glasses, then tossed him the book he was reading as he said, “you looked taller in your pictures.”

Castiel caught the book, and turned it to look at the spine.  _ Castiel: A History.  _ He flipped through the pages, squinting in the dimness. He furrowed his brow as he turned page after page, looking at various drawings and photographs of himself, descriptions of places he’d been and people he’d interacted with. There were sections on Sam and Dean, and at least three whole pages cataloging his choices in outerwear. Near the end of the book was a sketch of him, in shirtsleeves and slacks, standing in front of a hearth. In the picture, the shadows of two great wings stretched out, illuminated by the flames, as the figure stared intently down into the pages of a book.

He gave a slight shake of the head as he snapped the book closed. He gripped it tightly in his hands and tried to think.  _ Why am I in this place? What is the purpose? _

“You’re not special, you know,” said Metatron smugly, arms folded across his chest. Castiel looked up with a sharp stare as the archangel removed his glasses and began to methodically clean them with the hem of his dress shirt. His grin shown in the darkness. “Sure, you have your own book, but look around you. You’re just a drop in the bucket. Mediocre at best!”

Castiel frowned intently. “I do not need your commentary on my life’s worth,” he said with a growl. “I just need to know how to get out of here.”  
Metatron slid his glasses back on his face. “I guess that depends on where you want to go,” he said.  
“I don’t know,” said Castiel in frustration. “Just… away from here.”

“Then it hardly matters which way you go, does it?” Metatron replied, as if he was talking to a small child.

“I mean to say,” Castiel clarified, “that I know that I need to get somewhere--”

“Oh, that will most certainly happen. Just walk in one direction long enough.”

Castiel shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, then asked with a low growl, blue eyes flashing, “Why are  _ you  _ here?”

“I’m here because you are here, Castiel.”

Castiel frowned. “You are here, and Lucifer is here, too. This is lunacy. None of it makes any sense.”

“Well, it seems you’ve hit the nail on the head,” Metatron smiled. “You’ve gone insane!”

Castiel swallowed nervously. “How do you know I’m insane? Perhaps this is all a dream.” he responded in irritation.

“Oh dear, sweet Castiel, angels don’t dream and you know it. We’re all insane here. You must be, too, or you wouldn’t be here.”

Castiel thrust the book out and Metatron took it. He stared at Castiel with amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Look around this room. You tell me why you’re here. When you figure it out, I’m sure you’ll find your way.”

Castiel felt palpations of anxiety beat against the inside of his skin. Was Metatron right? Had he gone mad? Before coming here, he’d been overwhelmed by visions, tethered by some invisible force. If this was madness, could it be that Pearl and Charlene were afflicted with the same madness? And if so, was it really madness in the first place? 

He knew he couldn’t just stay in the library, that they had to be some way out, but the great room seemed to be one giant enclosure; there were no doors, no windows, just towering walls of books dancing with shadows of nefarious intent. He walked to his left up to one of the walls to get a closer look. He ran his fingertips along the spines as he walked and scanned.  It didn’t take long for him to identify the theme. Homer, Sophocles, Herodotus, Euripides, Ovid, Hesiod, Aristophanes, Aeschylus, Virgil, Euclid, Archimedes; the walls were made of countless works from ancient greek scholars and authors. It was if Pearl’s collection of research had been multiplied exponentially. Interspersed between the original works were even more books analyzing the ancient writings. He stopped, as if compelled by some unseen force, fingers drawn to an older book bound in cerulean blue canvas with gold leaf lettering. He carefully slid the book from the shelf and examined the cover: Euripides’  _ The Madness of Heracles _ . He opened to a random page and scanned the Greek until a passage jumped out at him.

"She is mounted on her chariot, the queen of sorrow and sighing, and is goading on her steeds, as if for outrage, the Gorgon child of Night, with a hundred hissing serpent-heads, Madness of the flashing eyes."

Madness. Was Metatron correct? And if so, who was this Gorgon Child of Night? He slid the book back into place and began to half-walk, half-jog, scanning more and more titles as he made his way around the room. He could hear Metatron titter from the middle of the room, but Castiel ignored him. He reached a ladder that led up to the second tier and climbed it hurriedly. He continued to search for he knew not what, until his gaze fixed on another blue-bound tome, this one without a title. He opened it to a page roughly the middle and was surprised to see it was handwritten in wild, looping script.

“She came to me in a dream. She promised me knowledge, power, and her infinite love. She told me she’d give me a family, a daughter, and in return: an offering. On my daughter’s thirtieth birthday, she would join us, work through her, righting injustice and punishing the falsehoods of so-called righteous men. We would be together then, forever and always. Loneliness banished. But she’s gone now, my Charlene. I must get her back, I must--”

_ Charlene is in danger. I must go.  _

Castiel slammed the book closed and shuddered. Below, Metatron’s giggle became a cackle. “Oh, Castiel! Your taste in friends is impeccable!”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of white. He snapped to attention and saw Lucifer standing on the other side of the gantry, looking bored and checking his watch. He reached up and slid a book from the shelf, and as he did so an entire panel of the shelf opened inward revealing a passageway. He glanced Castiel’s way and winked, then slipped through the door. 

_ An exit _ . Castiel broke into a run as the door started to creak closed, trying to catch it before his opportunity passed. His legs and arms pumped as he rounded the corner and he skidded to a stop just in time to miss the opening. A sudden flare of anger burned his thinking and he pounded both fists against the shelves where the door once was in frustration.

“Did you find what you were looking for, Castiel?” called the grinning voice from below.  Castiel closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the shelf, trying to tamp down the rage that turned the periphery of his vision red. He felt useless, impotent. The longer he was stuck in this place, the more likely that something bad would happen to Charlene, to Sam. To Dean.

The cosmic injustice of it all was almost comical. He’d only just finally felt what could be described as true happiness; his realization with Dean had requited emotions he’d been previously unable to acknowledge or even name. He wasn’t so naive as to think everything would be,  _ what was the idiom? Wine and roses? _ But he thought that just maybe, possibly, there would be a lull long enough to finally relax. To spend even just a day with Dean, a day without worry or strife, would have been enough. Dean deserved that much. He deserved everything. 

Suddenly, he heard a voice in his head, but it was not his own. It was Dean’s.

_ I’m coming, Cas. Find me. I believe in you.  _

_ No, no, no, _ thought Castiel, his own voice this time.  _ Don’t come here, you can’t come here. We’re all mad here. _

His eyes fluttered open and drifted down. At chest level he spotted yet another blue-bound book with a gold leaf embossing on its spine of an old repeater rifle. 

_ Winchester.  _ Castiel smiled gratefully as he slid the book from the shelf. He heard a groan as a whole panel of shelving opened inward into darkness. He glanced down onto the main floor where Metatron was still cackling in the shadows, all but invisible excepting his smile flashing in the firelight, and then walked through the door. 


	17. The Righteous Man

Charlene pressed her cheek against the bark of the sycamore tree as tears ran down her cheeks. He eyes were closed, palms and forearms resting on the trunk. Her fair skin was dappled by writhing shadows cast by the great murder of crows overhead, and she was lost in the great swell of power that pulsed through the tree and into her. Behind her eyelids was a sea of red, scarlet waves that rolled in and out in time with the life force of tree. Her heartbeat, exhalations, and all other biorhythms were no longer under her control. There was the tree, and only the tree, and nothing else. 

Pearl stood off to one side, keeping a watchful eye on her daughter. Slowly, she walked up to the tree, closed her eyes, and laid the flat of her hand against the trunk. Suddenly, her mind’s eye swam with crimson, and she felt herself suddenly dropped into a vast black space. She stood in front of a great hearth, roaring with flames, and through the flames she could see into a vast library. She could see the man Charlene had brought home, clad in a white dress shirt and trousers, looking frustrated as he spoke to another, nebbish man who tossed him a book. 

_ But, he’s not a man, is he, this Castiel? _ she thought curiously to herself. Lyssa did not specify who the Righteous Man would be, but it was clear to Pearl that whomever she was looking at was not him. He was powerful, for certain, able to appear and disappear at will. At least, he was able to, before Lyssa caught him. Now he, whatever he was, was here with her. Lyssa must have taken him for a purpose, but if he was not the Righteous Man, then why not kill him, cast him aside?  _ Why is she keeping him? _

She watched thoughtfully as Castiel began to search the library in desperation. He pulled out one book, and then another, and then took a ladder to the second floor.  _ She’s buying time _ , she realized.  _ She let him populate his own madness. He’s chasing his own tail, and he will for as long as she needs him to, as long as it takes-- _

Suddenly, she heard a distant voice, a man’s voice, float through the darkness and flames. 

“I’m coming, Cas. Come find me.”

She closed her eyes and followed the voice up, up, up, through the dark and then the red until she saw bright daylight flashing through car windows. Her gaze rested on the face of a man with sandy hair, worn out, glaucous eyes, and a pained, anxious expression. He held Castiel in his lap, clasping his hand tightly, as a tall, brunette man at the wheel of the car barrelled down the deserted street. 

“I believe in you,” whispered the man to Castiel.

_ There you are _ , thought Pearl with a smile.  _ Castiel is the bait, but this man and his brother, they was the real prizes. _

With a whoosh, her eyes flew open and she found herself back at the tree. Charlene was breathing harder now, shivering in the stiff breeze. Pearl strode to her daughter and ran her hand through her hair. She wiped away a tear that trickled down Charlene’s cheek and whispered, “my love, can you see them?”

Charlene nodded, eyes still closed.

“You need to rebuke their aggression, my darling,” she soothed. “You need to weaken them. Only then can we complete the rite. Only then will you be able to take your destined place.”

Charlene’s eyes fluttered open, blown huge and glassy. “M-Mom… I don’t, I…” she stammered. “They are my friends.”

Pearl ran her hand through her daughter’s hair again. “Shhh, my love. You only just met them. They are not your family. I am. Lyssa is. Today is your promised birthday, and those men are not coming to celebrate.” He voice dropped an octave of caution, “they are here to avenge their Castiel, whom Lyssa smote for his insolence. Do you think they care for you at all? If they had to choose between you and this… Castiel, that they would choose  _ you _ ?”

Charlene swallowed hard. “Sam cares for me,” she quavered.

“The tall man?” Pearl clarified softly.

“Y-Yes,” stammered Charlene, fresh tears flowing. “He cares for me, and I want him, I don’t want to lose him.”

“Then you shall have him,” Pearl nodded solemnly. “You shall have everything you desire when all is said and done. But he must know his place, they must  _ all  _ know their places. You must  _ put  _ them in their places, do you understand?”

Charlene felt a great pulse from the tree that burned through her veins. She gasped in exquisite agony as she felt fear and anger and disgust coalesce into a white hot ball of molten intent deep in the core of her being. She could not refuse its power as she squeezed her eyes shut. She let out a guttural scream that intensified into a reverberant roar that sent the entire murder of crows swirling from the branches above into a great and ominous cloud. 


	18. Won't You Light My Way?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music reference: Light My Way by Audioslave  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJDe-Ekro30

As the Impala skidded onto Locust Drive, Dean began to flush. Castiel remained motionless, unconscious in his lap, and the sight of his friend in such a helpless state stoked a fire in the pit of his stomach that caused bile to rise and bubble in his throat. He swallowed hard and leaned down, placing a hot kiss softly on his forehead. Then, gruffly, he said, “I’m coming, Cas. Come find me. I believe in you.”

Sam focused on the road, checking for house numbers, cross streets. He noted that what Dave had told him was true; the neighborhood was abandoned. There were no cars, doors and windows were boarded up, lawns overgrown. Over the sound of the engine he could hear the cawing of crows. He looked ahead down the block and saw an enormous tree that rose from behind a ramshackle blue house. The leaves appeared to be black, twisting and swirling in the wind ominously. As they neared the block, it looked as if a great portion of the leaves shifted and blew away, swirling into the sky.

_Those aren’t leaves,_ Sam realized. “Uh… Dean…?”

Just then, a large German Shepherd darted in front of the car and Sam instinctively slammed on the brakes, sending Dean and Castiel crashing into the seat in front of them.

“Dammit, Sam!” cried Dean, trying to cradle Castiel the best he could to shield him from the impact. He looked around to determine why Sam had suddenly stopped, and then he noticed the dog. It was dirty and its fur was matted. It stood in front of them, fearless and slavering. It stared at the car, through the car, meeting their eyes. It was then that Dean saw the great, swirling black cloud that grew larger as it beared down on the car. His eyes widened and he gripped Castiel protectively. “Sammy… what is that?” he asked hoarsely.

“I think,” Sam said, blinking rapidly, “I think those are crows.”

The German Shepherd in front of the car laid its ears back and bared its teeth in a snarl. From his periphery Dean could see more dogs, mud spattered and mangy, circle around from behind along either side of the Impala. There was a Golden Retriever, a Welsh Corgi, a smaller Spaniel mix, a Rottweiler, a Poodle, and an assortment of other mutts, a dozen dogs all told. Each of them was in a defensive stance, tense and growling, foam dripping from their mouths.

“Dean, get down!” shouted Sam as the great cloud of birds came barreling down onto them. The air inside the car darkened as the maelstrom of crows shrieked and roared around them, talons and beaks scratching and clawing against the glass. Birds began dive bombing the windshield and windows with sickening crunches, each brutal suicide attack fracturing the glass and streaking it with crimson smears and dark, matted feathers.

Sam reflexively curled his arms around his face and in doing so lifted his foot from the brake pedal. The car began to roll forward, and as it did the barreling bird attacks increased in intensity. The dogs began barking ferociously and jumped at the car, scratching and snapping at the glass. Sam flailed and grabbed the wheel with one hand, still shielding his face with the other, searching for the brake with his foot. In doing so, he accidentally engaged the wiper blades as well as hit the stereo’s on button, streaking blood across the cracked windshield and filling the car with loud electric guitars.

_In my hour of need,_   
_On the sea of gray,_   
_On my knees I pray to you,_ _  
Help me find the bones of the dying dead._

“Sam!” shouted Dean from the backseat, “You need to drive! Get to the house!”

Sam took a deep breath, knitted his brows, and centered his focus. Through the swirling darkness and smears of red, he could barely see anything outside of the car, let alone the road. Another bird crashed into the windshield directly in front of him, finally breaking through and leaving a small opening that gave Sam just enough room to see through.

_Won’t you light my way?_

_Won’t you light my way?_

Past the cloud of crows he could see that three dogs stood in front of him. He frowned, then winced, then stomped the gas pedal as hard as he could, sending the tires of the Impala screaming and smoking. The dogs did not move, and instead the car drove straight through them. The impact rocked the car and the tires thumped sickeningly over their bodies.

_The bullet is a man,_   
_From time to time he strays,_   
_I compare my life to their’s,_ _  
To this I remain._

Another bird hit the windshield causing it to finally fall to pieces as the car rocketed forward. Sam did his best to steer while also protecting his face as birds and broken glass poured into the car, scratching and clawing. Dean leaned over to cover Castiel the best he could, but could feel blood being drawn from his hands, cheeks, and scalp as the frenzied birds bit in with beak and talon. The cawing and flapping of wings was deafening as the Impala barreled forward.

_And unwilling to listen_

_To your answers,_   
_And I'm not afraid_ _  
To tell you I need you today._

Sam turned the wheel sharply and headed straight for Pearl’s house. “Brace yourself!” he shouted back to Dean, and just moments later the Impala plowed into the rear end of a powder blue 1979 Chevy Camaro. They slammed forward with a sickening crunch and squeal of steel and were thrown forward. Dean braced himself with an arm and his legs, protecting Castiel, and Sam was saved by his seat belt.

“We need to get Cas inside!” Dean yelled, hoping to be heard over the screeching and flapping. The engine smoked and sputtered but the electrical system still worked as the song continued to play.

_Won’t you light my way?_

_Won’t you light my way?_

Sam nodded, throwing open the door. He pulled his jacket up over his head with one hand and grabbed his pistol with the other just as the Golden Retriever lunged at him through the open car door. Sam fired once, twice, dropping the dog at his feet. It panted prone on the gravel drive as blood slowly seeped out to dye its fur red. The rage had left its eyes, and was replaced with pain and confusion. Suddenly, the great swarm of crows coalesced and rocketed upward in a seeming retreat, taking with them the living birds that were in the car. Sam saw his chance. He slid across the seat to the passenger door and threw it open, and in that movement he glanced at his brother.

Dean's eyes bore a look of abject terror. His jaw was clenched as he stared down at Castiel helplessly. Sam opened the passenger door and jumped out to see the rest of the dogs turn and sit ten yards away, observing with watchful eyes. He tore open the rear door for Dean who was still frozen.

“Dean!” he shouted, snapping his brother from his stupor. Dean’s face whipped up to meet his brother's. “I think I scared them! Pull him out of there!” Dean swallowed and nodded then slid out from under the angel and out of the car as Sam ran to the front door, gun in hand. He tried the door and found it unlocked, so he threw it open. Then, the cackling of the crows intensified, and Sam looked up to see them swirling in formation high above. The dogs began to growl again and raise their haunches. Then, one bird dropped from the sky down at Dean who was pulling Castiel from the car.

_So when I'm lost,_   
_Or I'm tired and depraved,_   
_Or when my high bullet mind_ _  
Goes astray, won't you light my way?_

The bird made contact with the back of Dean's head, eliciting a loud “Sonofabitch” as he reflexively ducked forward while giving one last tug that released Castiel from the car. Sam ran back to Dean as the dogs began barking and holstered his sidearm. He snatched up Castiel's legs and started running backwards, Dean following with his hands hooked under the angel's arms. Three more birds dive bombed their heads, and while Sam and Dean were able to flinch them away, the third made contact with Castiel's face leaving another bloody gash. As they got up the steps the dogs began running toward them, slaver trailing from their mouths. As they reached the steps, Sam dropped Castiel’s legs and yelled, “Get him inside!”

Dean turned and dragged Castiel through the open door as Sam drew his pistol, unloading wildly at the approaching dogs as the murder beared down on them from above. The crows were almost upon him when he stumbled backwards through the door. He kicked it shut with his foot from his prone position, flinching in anticipation of the birds slamming into the door, but they didn't. He could hear them cawing, but from above, and no dogs barked. He turned backwards to see his brother sitting on the ground, panting heavily, arms still hooked under Castiel’s. Their eyes met, Dean with a look of relief that changed to confusion as Sam looked past him with wide eyes.

In the dimness he could see books. Hundreds and hundreds of books were piled on shelves, the floor, and every other available surface, just like at Charlene’s apartment.

_Why can't you just want something normal, Sam?_


	19. Who Are You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music reference: Light My Way by Audioslave  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJDe-Ekro30

Castiel walked into the darkness, anxiety greatly lessened as he grew accustomed the the strangeness of his predicament. He knew Dean was out there, somewhere beyond his own madness. He had not lost him, and that knowledge emboldened him. He treaded carefully through the jet blackness, testing every step before putting his full weight down. Ahead, very far away, he saw a pin prick of light. It grew bigger as he walked toward it, and Castiel could see that it was an opening into some new space. He was drawn to the hazy grey light that emanated from the opening, coaxing him. Once he reached it he stepped through, and found himself in a great room, dimly lit by some unseen source. His spun around to see that the opening was gone, all that remained was a blank, white plane. His eyes travelled upwards, following walls that stretched up into the darkness until they disappeared. The room was filled with a smoky haze that smelled of sweet tobacco. The source of the haze was a raven-haired man in an inky navy suit, black shirt and teal tie, lounging on a large, plushly upholstered tawny chaise in the center of the room. Next to him was a rolling glass side cart, atop which was a decanter and two glasses. He seemed relaxed yet poised as he puffed away at a cigar.

_Crowley._

The demon slowly rose and stalked toward the angel with a glimmer in his eyes. “Who are you?” he purred in an gruff Irish accent.

“You know very well who I am, Crowley,” growled Castiel with hostility.

“You misunderstand, Kitten,” corrected the demon, voice dripping with condescension. “I mean who are you _today_? Grace-driven smiter of evil? Flesh suit for a bigger, badder brother? Or are you just Dean Winchester’s little bitch errand boy?” He took a puff of his cigar and blew a steely cloud toward Castiel, causing him to cough. He couldn’t help but to inhale some of it, and he noted a rolling, intoxicating effect course gently through his nervous system.

“My business here is no business of yours,” grumbled Castiel. If he could, he would smite the demon right then and there and be done with his mind games, however he knew that doing so would greatly reduce his chances of escape. “I only wish to move through here, to proceed onward toward my final destination.”

“You haven’t even seen the gallery yet,” Crowley gestured around the room with a sweeping gesture of his arm. “It really isn’t to be missed,” he purred.

It wasn’t until that moment that Castiel noted the walls. Along the them, placed at standard intervals about five feet apart, were huge, black picture frames. He cautiously approached the closest one, and saw that it was a very large and elaborate reproduction Pearl’s drawing of the black-robed woman with the tree. The detail was exquisite. The large black dog at her feet snarled ferociously, pitiless eyes flaring, mouth dripping with slaver. The crows that circled her head seemed almost to have a life of their own, individual feathers shimmering and pulsing with an underlying glow. The bark of the tree was cracked and broken, and a hazy mist seemed to ooze from it like a broken blister. The roots of the tree traveled deep into the earth and flowed upward to form the delicate folds of fabric that made up the robe. In between the folds Castiel detected elegant script, words and incantations in ancient Greek.

Λύσσα έρχεται.

_Lyssa is coming._

Το σκάφος είναι ώριμα.

_The vessel is ripe._

Θυσιάσουν την δίκαιος άνθρωπος.

_Sacrifice the righteous man._

Είναι καιρός για την προσφορά.

_It is time for the offering._

He looked up at the face of the woman, now rendered in full detail. He had absolutely no doubt in his mind that he was looking right into the face of Charlene. Her eyes were black, her face was stone, but it was Charlene nonetheless. He understood now. Lyssa, she had caused his madness, and now she meant to take Charlene. And the righteous man?

“Dean,” he whispered hoarsely to himself.

During his intense inspection, Castiel had failed to notice that the demon had sidled up right alongside of him.

“Pray tell, Giraffe, how do you plan to locate your little squirrel?” taunted Crowley with another drag of his cigar.

The angel frowned. “I do not know,” he said in a flat growl, trying to cover his panic.  He coughed as the demon exhaled in his face yet again. More dizzying euphoria rolled through, disorienting him. “I need to go to him,” he coughed.

Castiel backpedaled away from the wall, away from Crowley. The demon chuckled with a voice like rich leather and pursued like a jungle cat. “Why?” he grinned wickedly. He drew and exhaled again, and Castiel’s eyelids and pulse fluttered in time as the smoke continued to exert its control over his senses.

“He’s… he’s in...” Castiel’s vision began to swim as he struggled to form sentences. He put his hand out as if the grab something to steady his balance, and upon finding nothing he simply leaned forward to rest his hands on his knees.

“You should sit, Castiel,” said Crowley through a sinister smile, gesturing to the chaise. “You seem a bit out of sorts, don’t you think?”

The angel nodded weakly and staggered to the chaise to sit down, hanging his head between his knees. His senses felt suppressed, transmuted somehow. He could hear his feelings, taste his touch, see his thoughts. He shook his head, trying to clear away the smog clouding his brain. He looked to his side and there, next to him on the chaise, sat Dean. He was just as Castiel had left him: dark denim, red flannel, canvas jacket. He was also leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs, and a troubled look pained his freckled face.

“You okay, pal?” he asked with gruff concern. “You don’t look so good.”

Castiel sat bolt upright, blinking but not believing.

“D-Dean? Is it really you?” he stammered. “You said you would find me, to wait for you, but I did not think--”

“I’d actually come?” Dean smirked.

Castiel leaned over and grasped Dean’s hands in his and swallowed hard, trying to steady the world as it spun around him. “No, no, not that,” he slurred. “I knew you would come, that you will always come…”

Dean let go of the angel’s hands and brought his own up to cup the Castiel’s cheeks. He ran his thumbs gently over his cheekbones, and leaned in to make contact with his deep and mossy eyes. “You know you can always count on me, Cas,” he smiled.

Castiel nodded weakly, heart filling with gratitude as the haze in the room became thicker. But, if Dean was here, a part of the madness, then where was he really? His corporeal form was almost certainly still in danger.

“How did you get here? What happened?” questioned Castiel with hoarse, disorientated anxiety clogging his speech.

“Shhh, Cas,” he soothed. “That doesn't matter right now. I found you, I made it, and we're together,” he said, nuzzling the stubble around Castiel’s mouth. “I thought I lost you, and I’d only just found you.”

“I am… I am unwell,” murmured the angel in a daze. “I have been seeing people, things.  Lucifer, Metatron, Crowley. I don't know what is real and what is not.”

“Well, we're all alone now, Cas. Maybe they're afraid now that I'm here,” Dean said, with soft pride.

Castiel pulled back and groggily looked around to see that Crowley had indeed vanished, and they were alone.

Dean leaned into Castiel, pushing him into the back of the chaise. He slid one knee between Castiel's legs and pulled his other knee up to the angel’s hip. He ground down gently on Castiel’s thigh, and he could feel Dean’s want for him pressing through the denim and thin suiting that separated them. Dean brought his hands up to cup Castiel’s jaw, and their lips grazed together, the fizz of static tickling between them like the carbonation of a newly opened soda pop.

“I missed you, angel,” he whispered, breath low and wanton.

“And I you, Dean,” growled Castiel, who slid his hands under his lover’s shirt, up along his spine, pulling the man down onto him, increasing the friction between them. “But, we cannot stay here.”

“Just a few minutes, Cas,” begged Dean. “I thought you were gone forever. I called you, I needed your help, I couldn’t find you…”

“But Charlene is in danger.”

Dean’s emerald eyes darkened in the smoky haze. Dean gently, and then not so gently, squeezed Castiel’s jaw. “I _can_ count on _you_ , right?” he asked, voice taking on a hint of malice. “You wouldn’t, know you, _ignore_ me when I ask for help, amiright Castiel?”

_Something is wrong_. Castiel blinked rapidly in his disorientation and tried to pull away, but Dean held him in a vice-like grip that exceeded even Castiel’s considerable strength. He could hear Crowley sniggering from behind them; he must have returned suddenly, strolling around the chaise, enjoying the show.

“Why _did_ you ignore me, Cas?” growled Dean, the anger now in plain sight. With a solid shove he pushed Castiel away from him and rose to standing. “After last night you decided to just fly off with someone else, ignore my texts and calls? Who does that? Shit, Cas, I know you’re no human, but I thought you at least had a heart!” He gestured with emphatic anger toward the painting and his voice rose to a shout. “Do you realize what you’ve gotten yourself into? What you’ve gotten me into?”

Castiel staggered to standing and stumbled toward Dean. The angel wrapped his arms around the man who went rigid in his embrace.

“No, no, it was not like that,” he mumbled, “please forgive me, I should had responded.” He clumsily tilted his head in and pressed a hot, sad kiss on his lover’s lips. Dean jerked his head back and shoved Castiel away and down to the ground with a look of disgust.

“Last night was a mistake, Cas,” he spat. “I should have known better, should have remembered all those time you flew off and left me alone. Now it’s my turn. I’ll find my own way out of here.”

Castiel was glued to the ground, world spinning, hands in his hair. He was wracked with guilt. He knew he should have responded to Dean, but he didn't out of respect for Charlene, and because of the strange magnetism that had befuddled the compass of his mind.

“Dean! Please!” he called, trying to stand but doubling over again in the haze. He gave up and tucked his chin down as he repeated over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” under his breath. When he eventually looked back up, Dean was gone.

“Will you please get up?” mocked the demon who now stood by the side table. “You're embarrassing yourself!”

Suddenly, Castiel could hear a faraway echo coming from above. He could make out the sound of electric guitars, and felt the ground shudder slightly beneath him. He heard the distant reverberation of a man’s voice.

_In my hour of need,_   
_On the sea of gray,_   
_On my knees I pray to you,_ _  
Help me find the bones of the dying dead._

He knew that song; it was on the tape with the song he sang to Dean the night before. The sounds grew stronger, swirling the air in a gentle vortex. The haze of the room began to lift, and with it went the cloud in Castiel's mind.

_Won’t you light my way?_

_Won’t you light my way?_

A larger rumble travelled underfoot, nearly causing Castiel to stumble as he climbed back to his feet. He looked up as the haze swirled up and away, and a near imperceptible smile slid onto his face. _I should have known better_ , Castiel chastised himself. _He's still out there, still trying to make his way to me._

He turned back to Crowley who stood at the table, stubbing his cigar out in a crystal ashtray. He turned his attention to the decanter and poured two drinks. While pouring the second the ground shook again, even more violently, causing Crowley to spill some of the amber liquid. “Bollocks,” he mumbled crossly to himself.

_The bullet is a man,_   
_From time to time he strays,_   
_I compare my life to their’s,_ _  
To this I remain._

Castiel winced as he felt a sharp pain on his cheek, like he was being scratched. He brought his hand to his face and felt a wet gash, and upon inspecting his fingers he saw crimson. He looked quickly up to the demon who sneered in amusement. “Looks like they've started the party without you,” he growled.

_And unwilling to listen_

_To your answers,_   
_And I'm not afraid_ _  
To tell you I need you today._

“Dean!” shouted Castiel upward, “Can you hear me?”

“Oh, you are much too far away for that too work,” condescended the demon. “In fact, you’re running quite late. You might not make it at all.”

“Late for what?!” exclaimed the angel in gruff exasperation.

The demon nodded past Castiel toward another large art piece, an ink drawing of an elaborate mantle clock with an intricate sycamore at the top of the hour.

_Five to tree._

“Why, the Queen’s birthday party, of course,” purred Crowley. “That's the whole reason you're here. You're the invitation.”

_Won’t you light my way?_

_Won’t you light my way?_

_A trap. Lyssa has sent me here because she needs a righteous man, and I'm bringing one right to her. Dean didn’t leave me; he’s been with me the whole time._

Castiel felt his grace flare with anger. He stomped up to the demon as two huge booms of thunder crashed far above. Castiel grabbed him roughly by the lapels and shook him. “No more games!” he roared. “Where is the exit?!” He could see the blue fire in his eyes reflected in the black of the demon's. His breathing betrayed his countenance, coming out ragged and fearful.

_So when I'm lost,_   
_Or I'm tired and depraved,_   
_Or when my high bullet mind,_ _  
Goes astray won't you light my way._

“Are you going to smite me, Castiel?” smiled Crowley. “Or are you going to listen? We really aren’t working against you, you must see that. This place? It’s her’s,” he said, nodding to the portrait, “but you’re the one populating it. You're just doing a shite job asking for directions.” With that, he shrugged away Castiel's hands and picked up the two glasses. He offered them both to the angel and instructed, “Choose one.”

“What are they?” he asked, eyeing them with suspicion.

“This room has two exits. Up,” he gestured with the right glass, “and down,” he gestured with the left. “You just have to choose. “

Castiel looked upward into the blackness, toward the source of the sound.

_Hey, don't save it for another day_   
_Hey, don't save it for another day_   
_Won't you light my way?_ _  
Won't you light my way?_

Castiel looked down, snatched the right glass from Crowley’s hand and, without taking his eyes off the demon, downed it in one gulp.

“There's a good lad,” the demon rasped approvingly.


	20. Known Quantities

Wide eyed in the dark, the brothers took a moment to slow the adrenaline-fueled heaving of their chests. With the exception of a few errant caws up in the tree above, neither Sam nor Dean could hear anything. 

“Why did it stop following us?” wondered Sam.

“I’m guessing whatever it is out there,” Dean pointed to the front door, “is perfectly fine with us being in here,” he pointed at the floor.

“But why?” Sam said with a shake of his furrowed brow.

“Because in here…” Dean shrugged, “we’re known quantities?”

Dean readjusted himself so that he was kneeling next to Castiel. The angel was still out cold and in Dean’s estimation quite worse for the wear. His face bore several long gashes from the beaks and claws of the crows. Dean pressed his lips together and winced. “I couldn’t protect him, Sammy,” he muttered.

“Dean…” Sam trailed off.

“Look, man, I know he’s still alive, but he shouldn’t be like this to begin with!” Dean tipped his head slightly to one side and then looked up, like looking was a question without an answer, “You said it, I shoulda called him.” His eyes floated back down and Sam could tell he was biting something back with practiced restraint. “He is where he is because he is who he is; Castiel tried to help someone, save someone, because he is  _ good _ .” Dean's voice dropped to a low rasp, “And he failed, because he had to do it alone.”

“He’s not alone now,” reminded Sam, trying to reassure his brother and therefore himself.

“Isn’t he though?” asked Dean in frustration. “Look at him!” He gently rested his calloused hand across Castiel’s forehead and continued, “he’s stuck in there, somewhere, and we don’t know how to get him out, or whether he can even get out at all. If we find this Lyssa, kill her, how do we know that won’t hurt Cas?” Dean’s breaths took on a shallow, shuddering aspect and Sam could now see what Dean had been biting back: despair.

Sam crawled to crouch next to his brother. “We can fix this,” he soothed. “We can figure it out. We always do.”

Tears pushed behind Dean’s eyes. “I can’t lose him, Sammy. I can’t. I finally found him and if I lose him I…” Dean trailed off and picked up one of Castiel’s hands, bringing the back of it to his mouth. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. He swallowed, then stared at his brother through red rims. “Help me move him to the couch,” he said shakily. “We need to look around.”

Sam nodded wordlessly. He stood and swept the papers and books off the ratty sofa to make room for Castiel. They carefully lifted him and Dean did his best to lay him in a comfortable position, folding his arms over his abdomen. The eldest Winchester knelt down and gently rested his forehead against Castiel’s. He kissed him sweetly, the cool, full cupid’s bow of his angel’s mouth soothing the fiery shame burning beneath his own lips. Dean then lifted his head up and smoothed his hands down along Castiel’s lapels in a nurturing way, like one would adjust their lover’s tie before a big job interview, but then stopped as he felt something inside the angel’s coat pocket. Dean slipped his hand inside and pulled out a white cassette tape. On the side was Dean’s handwriting:  _ For Cas _ . Dean pressed his lips into a thin line and inhaled deeply through his nose before pocketing the tape in his own jacket.

He stood to face his brother, then looked at the room thoroughly for the first time.

“Whoa,” he said gruffly.

“Yeah,” replied Sam.

“This uh, remind you of anyone?”

Sam gave a humble nod. “Unfortunately, yeah.”

Dean walked up to one of the shelves and ran his fingers along the rows of books. “Your girlfriend’s mom doesn’t seem to be the recreational reading type, unless her leisure activities include ancient Greek sacrificial rites,” he said, pulling down a book and tossing it to his brother. 

Sam examined the cover.  _ Portrait of a Priestess: Women and Ritual in Ancient Greece _ . The pages were dog eared and worn, just like Charlene’s books were. The book fell open in his hand to a well-traveled spread featuring an ancient painting of a woman in front of a tree, surrounded by a circle of other women. In front of the main woman knelt a man being torn apart by dogs. The caption read:  _ Worshippers sacrifice a Righteous Man in the Rite of Lyssa _ .

Sam swallowed hard. “Dean…?”

“What?” replied his brother, not looking away from the shelves he was scouring.

Sam walked over to him and showed him the picture. 

“Righteous Man?” Dean contemplated gruffly.

“Sounds like anyone you know?” asked Sam with a raised eyebrow.

Dean swallowed as he looked over to the couch. “She wanted me to come here, didn’t she?”

“And we did so, willingly,” added Sam.

“We had no choice, Sammy,” said Dean, green eyes soft with sadness in the dark room.

“I know,” Sam nodded sympathetically. “He’d do the same for you, in a second, without reservation.” He rolled his shoulders and gave a small nod to his brother. “Look, you stay here with Cas and keep looking. I’ll check the rest of the house. Okay?”

“And what am I looking for?” asked Dean hoarsely. Sam could clearly see that his brother was lost and confused, his tether had been cut and he was floating freely in a sea of anxiety. He needed Sam more than ever, needed guidance he’d never had to ask for before.

“Look for anything on Lyssa, or the Rite of Lyssa.” He began ticking things off one his fingers, “look for anything pertaining to madness, crows, dogs, offerings, or trees.” Then, Sam clasped his brother’s shoulder comfortingly. “We've got this.”

“Sammy…?” Dean asked, unsure of how to finish the question. 

Sam swallowed and then clenched his jaw. “I've got  _ you _ .  _ Both _ of you.”

Dean nodded solemnly and Sam turned away. He carefully made his way down the dim hall, gun drawn, past the bathroom and it’s streaky mirror and into the bedroom. Upon entering, he slowly let his hands drop down to his sides as his mouth fell open slightly. He was surrounded by hundreds of drawings, just like the ones in the book Pearl gave Charlene. There were cloaked women. Rabid dogs. Shrieking crows. A giant tree oozing haze. His eyes drifted around the room until they fell upon a half-finished drawing that laid on the bed. He walked over to it and snatched it up, and upon inspection his breath hitched in his throat. 

A woman stood in the center of the frame, short dark hair and black eyes, but unrobed. Sam gulped. It was unmistakably Charlene. To her left knelt the figure of a man with hands of black, and her own hand rested upon his head. Behind her rose what at first seemed to be a great tree, but it was not a tree. It was a giant, robed and hooded woman who held up her arms up like branches, and where leaves would be there were countless crows swirling in a great and terrifying cloud. In front of Charlene laid the body of another man in a pool of black.

He was unsure of what to do, how to proceed. They were all in mortal danger, that much was for sure. They were lured here, trapped here, their only escape route laid comatose on the sofa in the other room. Their only option was an offensive, but who was their target? Pearl? Lyssa?

_ Charlene _ . Sam’s whole body tensed, his face pinched with apprehension.  _ What if I have to hurt her? What if I have to… kill her?  _

“Sammy?!” he heard his brother calling anxiously from the other room. “Sam, get over here now!”


	21. The Looking Glass

Castiel felt the liquid burn down his throat and hit the pit of his stomach with a sickening kick. He slammed the glass down on the cart and flexed his hands into fists at his sides, waiting for something, anything to happen.

“What is this, Crowley? Another trick?” growled the angel.

“Patience, Angel,” purred the demon.

With that, Castiel felt the burning move from his stomach outward, down his limbs and up his neck. He squeezed his eyes closed at the unpleasant sensation, and when he opened him he noticed that Crowley had shrunk smaller somehow.

“What is happening to you?” he asked with gruff confusion.

Crowley smiled and gave a small and knowing wave. “Toodles, Kitten.”

Castiel suddenly felt dizzy with vertigo as everything appeared to shrink all around him; Crowley, the chaise, the art on the wall, everything was becoming smaller at an increasingly rapid rate. But maybe not. _I am… growing?_ Castiel thought in bewilderment.  
As his head rocketed upward into the blackness he looked down to see his feet nearly filling the previously vast white room, and just as quickly his field of vision became totally clouded by the complete and utter blackness that was previously far above him. Eventually, the burning in his limbs and his vertigo slowly subsided. _I must be slowing down,_ the angel realized. As he did, the blackness faded to a hazy grey, and as he felt himself come to a stop he looked around to find himself in a long corridor, and at the end stood Lucifer in his crisp, white suit, a beacon in the darkness.

Castiel’s frustration was impossible to hide. “What are you doing here?” snapped Castiel. 

“Heeeey, brother,” soothed the archangel, “you’re the one following me.” He gave an easy smile that sent a shiver down Castiel’s spine.

“You’re just leading me in circles,” spat Castiel. 

“On the contrary, brother. She is,” he said, gesturing around the hallway. “She doesn’t want you at the party, you’ve been,” he eked out a half smile and a wink, “disinvited. You know who the real guest of honor is.” He shrugged. “Poor ol’ Dean,” Lucifer gave a faux-pout. He took a glance at his watch and strolled casually over to Castiel. He continued, slick voice soft and unnerving, “I say, let’s crash their party.” He gestured with his head toward a wall. Rather than doors along either side, the hallway was lined with countless mirrors in a variety of shapes and sizes, wrapped in elegant, scrolling, silver frames, glinting indifferently in the oppressive greyness. Castiel walked up to a rectangular one that Lucifer had gestured toward, wider than it was long, to observe his reflection. He anticipated a haggard sight, but what he beheld wasn’t a reflection at all. Through the mirror, he could see the interior of Dean’s Impala, or what was left of it anyhow. There was steam and smoke floating through the air, and Castiel could see smears of blood and broken glass everywhere. There were dead crows with broken necks, and other birds who were alive but too injured to fly away. Castiel’s breath seized in his lungs.  _ Dean, oh no… _ he thought, terror fluttering in his veins. 

“Your little Deanie Baby’s in trouble,” cooed Lucifer smugly.

Castiel ran to another mirror, a taller one and peered through. He he could see into a dark room, and past it an open door leading into a hallway of peeling, burgundy wallpaper. He was in Pearl’s bathroom, but he could see no one. He ran to another, larger mirror, and he could see into Pearl’s living room, filled with books, and there on the sofa he saw himself, unconscious, face cut and bleeding. He shivered at the strangeness of it all, until his eyes travelled up and fell upon Dean.

Dean was looking through the books on the shelves, pulling them out, flipping through them, and then dumping them on the floor. His human’s face was wracked with panic that bled through a thin, stoic veneer. He kept looking down to Castiel, biting his lip and shaking his head. Castiel’s heart sank at the sight of him, hands and neck clawed and scratched. He had brought Castiel back to this place, in the hopes of helping him, risking himself in the process.

“Don’t be late, brother,” he heard Lucifer’s voice say. He whipped his head around to reply, but when he did, he saw nothing. Lucifer was gone again.

_ I have to warn him _ , thought the angel in a panic.  _ He has to leave, get away. I cannot bear for him to get hurt, not at my expense _ .

“DEAN!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “DEAN! CAN YOU HEAR ME?!”

The man did not look up from his search.

“DEAAAN!” Castiel called louder, screaming his lover’s name in desperation. Still nothing. In frustration, he slammed the flats of his hands down hard on the glass of the mirror, sending a hollow thump reverberating through the hallway. Suddenly, Dean’s head perked up and tilted.  _ He can hear me _ , Castiel realized, a thin slice of hope cutting through the darkness of his mind. He raised his hands and slammed them down again, fearful of breaking the glass but seeing no other option.

Dean looked up and around the room, down the hall, and down at Castiel’s motionless body. Castiel could see the hunter’s eyes focus soften as he took a small shuddering breath. Then his eyes floated up to the mantle where they met Castiel’s gaze. It was as if a sudden electric jolt surged through his body as he lept across the room, over books, and straight up to the mirror. Castiel could see his mouth move, but could hear nothing. Dean’s eyes flared from a dull green to a brilliant, exhilarating emerald and Castiel could see his mouth make the words “Cas? Cas! Is that you?!”

Grateful tears pressed behind Castiel’s fierce blue eyes as he nodded vigorously. He placed one hand up against the glass and Dean brought his hand up to meet it. They could feel their warmth pressing through from one plane to the other, and Castiel watched as Dean turned his head and yelled. Castiel could read his lips. He said, “Sammy! Sam, get over here now!”


	22. I Am Coming

At the sound of his brother’s voice, Sam turned and barrelled down the hall, skidding to a stop to find Dean staring intently into the mirror above the fireplace mantle, his hand pressed into the glass. Sam came over cautiously and peered into it, and then he saw--

“Cas?!” Castiel could see Sam mouth the soundless words. The angel gave a small, sad wave. “How did you, where are…” Sam trailed off, unable to find the right question. He settled on, “Where are you?”

Castiel could tell what Sam said, but was unsure how to respond in a way that would translate soundlessly.  _ Perhaps I could mime? _ thought the angel fretfully. He knew his body language skills were… lacking to say the least, but he had to try something,  _ anything _ . He pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, thinking hard about what to do. He opened them again, looked at Dean, and pointed to himself.

“You,” said Dean instantly, having never taken his eyes off his angel since he caught him in the mirror.

A ghost of smile haunted Castiel’s tired face, he knew Dean understood what he was getting at. He gestured with his head out toward the room, then gestured down the sides of his head, miming Charlene’s short, angular haircut.

“Charlene?” guessed Sam. 

Castiel nodded approvingly. He made a motion like he was holding a steering wheel.

Dean narrowed his eyebrows in thought. “You drove here?”

Castiel nodded again. He mimed grabbing someone around the waist with his arms, and then brought his hands together to make something akin to a bird flying away while shaking his head back and forth.

Sam and Dean eyed one another in thought. They weren’t sure how to respond with a complex answer. Sam looked up and sideways with a sudden idea. He disappeared from Castiel’s field of view. Dean leaned closer to the mirror, and Castiel could tell he was taking deep, slow breaths through his nose. His gaze was sharp and wanting and sad, and Castiel’s eyes were drawn to his soft pink lips that mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

Sam came suddenly back into view, a pen and sketch pad in hand. He said something to Dean that he could not make out, and Dean nodded in approval. Sam scrawled furiously on the pad, then turned it so Castiel could see what he wrote.

_ You came here to help Charlene, but something bad happened. _

Castiel nodded vigorously. “Yes.”

Sam wrote some more, and Dean nodded again.

_ You tried to take her away but couldn’t. _

Castiel nodded again.

_ Lyssa wouldn’t let you. _

Castiel clenched his jaw and nodded slower with narrowed eyes. Dean snatched the pad from Sam and wrote sloppily.

_ She sent you somewhere. Where? _

Castiel tilted his head sideways and scrunched his face in thought. Then he raised his hand and tapped the side of his head with a single finger, the circled it around his temple. He said one word, desperately hoping it would make sense. “Madness.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, a flush of anger washing over him. He scrawled angrily in large letters, then held it up.

_ I am coming for you. _

Castiel shook his head vigorously, wide blue eyes filled with panic. “No! Dean, no! Do not!” he shouted, banging on the glass with his palm as Dean discarded the pad and pen on the floor. “No! No!” 

Dean turned and walked to Castiel’s body that lay on the sofa, leaned over, a placed a small kiss on his forehead. Sam looked on helplessly, muscles tense as he shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Dean returned to the mirror, kissed his fingertips, and gently pressed them against the mirror, face awash with calm determination.

“Dean, she’ll take you!” yelled the angel, voice shaking with guilt and helplessness. “You are the Righteous Man!” 

Dean understood that time. He nodded sharply and responded, “Damn right I am.” 

He turned to walk out of the room, but Sam stood in his way. “Dean, I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” he counseled anxiously, bobbing his head. “This is what she wants;  _ you  _ are what she wants.” He gestured towards the back of the house, “We don’t know what we’re going to find out there. If she doesn’t kill you outright, what makes you think you’ll even be able to get to Cas? Or get back?”

Dean’s gruff voice rasped in frustration. “Sammy, we don’t know a lot, but we do know this: The ancient Greek goddess of insanity and rage has her claws in Charlene and has Cas trapped in Crazy Town.” His tone darkened. “If she wants me she can goddamn have me, but I’m  _ gonna  _ to get Cas, and when all is said and done she’s going to regret the day she met  _ this _ Righteous Man.” With that, he turned and walked from the room. 

Castiel began banging on the glass with his fists rather than palms, panicked eyes flashing. Sam turned and made eye contact through the mirror, pressed his lips together and shook his head sadly, then turned to follow his brother out of the room. On the other side of the mirror Castiel remained alone in the corridor, and in a sudden flash of anger he brought both fists down against the mirror, shattering it into a million motes of silver iridescence. Like a chain reaction, every mirror in the hall exploded into glittering dust that pulsed and settled in the melancholic grey light, and Castiel found himself cut off and alone. He leaned up against the wall and slid down to the floor. He wrapped his arms over his knees and rested his forehead on them as silent tears he could no longer hold back trailed down his cheeks to his chin. It was his turn to pray.


	23. The Candle on the Cake

Dean marched through the small kitchen with his gun drawn, threw open the back door, and strode out into the yard where he promptly stopped dead in his tracks. Sam barrelled out after him, gun also drawn, and almost collided with his brother from behind. In front of them stood the great sycamore from Pearl’s drawings, all the more ominous in person. There were twisting, living shadows crawling across the ground, and both brothers’ eyes floated upwards to see the source: thousands of silent, hopping crows filled the branches of the tree, blotting out the afternoon autumn sunlight. Every pair of beady, black eyes were focused not on them, but on a single subject crouched at the base of the tree. Down in a nook between two huge roots sat Charlene, her long arms wrapped around even longer legs that were folded up to her chest. He chin was tucked down, raven hair hanging in her face, and it sounded as if she was talking to herself, though neither Sam nor Dean could quite make out the words. 

Dean threw Sam a look that his brother missed; Sam was completely focused on Charlene. He let his gun hand fall to his side; his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed as he shifted his weight front to back as if trying to decide whether to run toward her. Dean took a step forward and reached out to gently press Sam backward, snapping Sam from his trance. Sam winced at his brother, eyes wet and brow furrowed with concern, and Dean replied with a tip of his head and a hard blink.

_ I need to help her. _

_ I know. _

_ I need to go to her. _

_ Not yet. _

Suddenly, Charlene let out a low moan that secured Sam’s attention fully once more and drew him in despite his brother’s look of warning. 

“Sam!” barked his brother gruffly as Sam strode toward her.

Charlene moaned again, but this time it sounded like a word. Suddenly, her head popped up and her azure eyes fired up in a panic.

“Noooooooooo!” she bellowed, louder and deeper than should be possible as Sam knelt down beside her, holstering his gun to reach toward her. With exceptional strength she shoved Sam away, and he rolled backward off his feet and onto his seat, face twisted with confusion. She slowly rose to standing and the wind picked up again, causing her hair to angrily lash at her face. In the same low, resonant voice she scolded him, “I warned you not to come, to stay away.” She turned toward Dean with daggers in her eyes and bellowed, “You need to leave. Both of you. I can’t keep you safe for much long--” She winced, as if suddenly in a breathtaking amount of pain caused by an unseen source. She pressed her palms to her eyes and murmured, “No, no, no, I do not want this.”

Sam tried to rise to his feet, but succeeded only in scooting backwards. All of a sudden, Charlene’s face changed. She slowly brought her hands away from her eyes and let them float down to her sides. She blinked a few times as to clear her vision. She slowly turned toward Sam, whose face was twisted with concern, and spoke just above a whisper, “Sam? You came.”

Sam nodded as he pulled himself up to standing. Dean stood twenty feet away, gun still drawn, face taut with distrust.

“Sam,” cautioned Dean gruffly.

“Sammy,” susurrated Charlene in a low and grateful voice, “thank you.” With that, she closed the small space between them and leaned into Sam, wrapping one arm around his waist and running another up his neck and through his hair. She kissed him deeply, passionately, pressing her pelvis into his with desperation, and he responded with wanton abandon. He could feel need coursing through his veins. Want and adoration clouded his vision, periphery hazed with red. Kissing Charlene was like letting go, a burn akin to exhaling all of one’s breath and neglecting to breathe in again. There was Charlene, and only Charlene, and nothing else. 

“Sam?” probed Dean, voice streaked with worry. The wind picked up again, even fiercer than before, and suddenly all of the crows above began cackling menacingly. Charlene released Sam from her embrace and he took a step back. She gently took his hand and they both turned toward Dean, who could plainly see that something was different. Sam’s face was twisted with an emotion Dean couldn’t place, something in between anger and elation. 

Charlene spoke again, voice low, loud, and reverberant. “I told you, you shouldn’t have come,” she said with a sinister smile. “Sam, he’s mine now, my birthday present, and you,” she said, eyeing him icily, “you're the candle on the cake.”

Out from behind the tree slid a tall, thin woman with long, jet black hair, smiling with relief and pride as she gazed lovingly at Charlene. “You impress me daily, my love,” she cooed at her daughter. 

_ Pearl _ , thought Dean with alarm. “Stop!” he shouted as the woman took her place beside and slightly behind Charlene. He trained his gun on her, and then Charlene, and then back on her again, unsure of his target, and in his hesitation Sam took the opportunity to jump in front of them both. They slid behind the taller Winchester with small smiles. 

“Sammy…?” Dean trailed off, stinging tears pressing against the backs of his eyes. He was pulled taut, every muscle strained to the breaking point with paralyzing indecision. 

His little brother smiled, but through his twisted countenance it looked more like a grimace. “It's okay, Dean,” he soothed breathily. “I'm safe, Cas is safe. Now that you're here, everything can begin.”

Dean's eyes filled with panic, breath coming out ragged and raw as a red miasma began to ooze from the cracks in the bark of the tree. It crept across the ground toward him, obscuring their feet as the crows took up in chorus. From around the sides of the house circled the stray dogs from before, mouths twisted with ferocity. They took their places on either side of Sam and Charlene, guarding their charges. 

“All you have to do is say yes, Dean,” prompted Sam. “Say yes, and you can be with Cas. We don't have to be lonely anymore. We’ll have each other, we'll have Lyssa. Toss away your gun.”

Dean swallowed hard. “I toss my gun, and she'll send me to Cas?” he croaked hoarsely. 

Sam nodded. 

Without another hesitation Dean tossed his gun aside. Out from behind stepped Charlene with a grateful smile tinged with malice. “You really are the Righteous Man,” she said, voice reverberating low like an old church bell. She stretched out her hand and the red fog rolled forward, rising around Dean, coiling around his limbs and pulling him down to his knees. His breath came faster, but his thoughts were steady and resolute. 

_ I'm coming, Cas. I've got you. _

Charlene’s eyes glowed red, and suddenly the crimson mist that hugged the ground coalesced and poured into her. Her body convulsed as her eyes rolled back in her head. When all the mist was gone, Dean needed to blink a few times to figure out what he was seeing. Charlene’s body was the opposite of glowing. It was as the light all around them was being pulled into her, causing the sky to darken, the air to grey. The crows left their perches on the tree and rocketed upwards, their great and ominous maelstrom further whipping the wind into a gale force. Her feet left the ground over so slightly, buoyed by some unseen force, and she floated to Dean where he knelt. She gracefully raised her hand to his temple, and with that he his eyes fluttered closed as he crumpled to the ground.


	24. The Garage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music reference: Angel of the Morning by Juice Newton  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HTzGMEfbnAw

Castiel sat on the floor despondently, disgusted with his own helplessness. Suddenly, the density of the air around him changed, pressing down on him, deepening the dimness. He blinked furiously as the grey light dimmed to an oppressive blackness.

_Something is happening above_ , he realized in despair. _She must have Dean. The rite is complete_.

His last sliver of hope disappeared in the darkness. All sense of time and space was squeezed away, and he could no longer feel the ground under him or the wall behind him. This was different than the burrow through which he fell before. This blackness was tyrannical, unyielding, and voluminous. He felt as if suspended in tar, a dying animal struggling in futility. He ceased feeling, thinking. His breath surrendered to the crushing dark depths of his newfound oblivion.

Dean awoke suddenly, sitting straight up, gasping for air. His eyes darted frantically around the room, and he quickly realized where he was: On the cement floor of the garage at the bunker. He looked up and behind to see his baby, front end demolished. He pushed himself up to his feet and got closer to assess the damage. He could tell the engine was totaled; it would need a complete rebuild. All of the glass was cracked or shattered, and the exterior was streaked with blood and feathers. “I'm so sorry, Baby,” he murmured, smoothing a tender hand along the dented fender. Suddenly, he was hit with a wave of vertigo, causing him to grip the car roughly for balance.

_How did I get here? Did we… win? Where is Sam? Where is--_

“Cas,” whispered Dean aloud. “Cas?” he said again, voice rising, “Cas, if you can hear me, get your hot wings down here right now! I need you, man!” There was no reply, no fluttering of feathers or staticky crackle.

Dean began to pace back and forth in front of the Impala, head tipped upward, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he struggled to recall what had happened, what had lead him to this place. Memories came in flashes: A great tree. The screaming of crows. A mirror. Charlene standing hand in hand with Sam as a red mist rose. A hand resting on his head. A single thought. _I’m coming Cas. I’ve got you._

“This is _not_ the bunker,” Dean said with a realization. Lyssa sent him here, to the same place Castiel was trapped. Madness. He had to find Castiel. He patted himself down in an effort to assess his resources. He was no longer wearing his jacket. He was still dressed in his red flannel shirt, but the sleeves were rolled up. His jeans and boots were the same, but he was no longer armed. He didn’t even have his keys in his pocket. He hustled to the driver’s side of the Impala to pop the trunk from the inside, knowing there were plenty of weapons to choose from. He raced to the back and threw open the lid, and then lifted the dummy floor to reveal--

“Gaaah!” exclaimed Dean in repugnance. The trunk was not filled with weapons and material spell components. It was filled with a dozen of those stuffed bears from the fabric softener commercials, shiny, lifeless eyes staring blankly at nothing. He let the trunk lid slam closed as he shivered with revulsion. “Nope, definitely _not_ the bunker,” he repeated. He turned to search the counters and shelves for something, anything he could brandish as a weapon, but the room was empty.

“Looks like the propmaster forgot to show up today,” grumbled Dean to himself as he gave up and leaned his hips back against the workbench, thinking. He knew there were two exits out of the room; one was the door that lead into the bunker, and the other was the larger door that served as the vehicle entrance and exit. “I'll take door number two, Monty,” he snarked to no one, becoming impatient. He strode over and slapped the large button that opened the main door. Nothing happened. He slapped it again with a bit more vigor to the same end. “Sonofabitch!” he cursed. “I don't have time for this!” Castiel was down there somewhere all alone, and Sam was upstairs, the thrall of some evil goddess. Time was a factor, and he was clearly wasting it.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Door number one it is.” He ran up the short flight of stairs to the exit and felt a wave of relief as the handle turned. He threw the door open and ran across the threshold.

“... the fuck?” he exclaimed. He stood at the top of a short flight of stairs that lead down into… “The garage?”

He whipped around and stuck his head back out the door, where he saw the same garage, same busted Impala. No matter which direction he went he'd end up in the same place. _Madness is fucking right,_ thought Dean hopelessly.

He leaned against the door jam, tipping his head back with closed eyes, trying to regulate his anxiety-fueled breaths. _I shoulda just fucking called him. Why did I wait? Now it’s too late. I’m such an ass!_

Dean bolted upright, slamming the door angrily and slapping his thigh with the other hand, only it wasn’t just his thigh he felt. Something was in his pocket. He jammed his hand down and fished out--

“Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered, turning his smart phone over in his hand, mouth slightly slack with awe. _Maybe this isn’t just pure madness, he thought. Maybe this is more like a dream, a great shared dream where we bring in our own baggage_. Castiel had joined his dreams before, helped Dean exorcise his demons, and now all that remained was a dozen Snuggle bears and his busted up car. Castiel, though… angels didn’t dream. Didn’t sleep. Who knew what lurked inside his head, waiting for the chance to dig its claws in. This place, it felt foreign; it wasn’t Dean’s mind alone, so he didn’t have complete control. But little things…

“Well, it’s a start,” said Dean to himself. He woke the screen on the phone, praying it would work. “No shit,” he said with mild astonishment. Full bars. 4G. LTE. Sprint had shitty service in Kansas, but apparently the towers in Crazy Town were fully operational. He swiped open his contact list and mashed the icon he had set up for Castiel. It was a photo he took of the angel when he wasn’t paying attention, leaning over interrogating a bumblebee that crawled over a cluster of lavender. A smile played across Dean’s face but was quickly pressed into a thin line as the phone began to ring Castiel’s number.

Castiel felt nothing. Well, that wasn’t exactly correct. He felt cold. The only other time he had been bothered by the cold was when he was human, but that was nothing compared to the freezing lack that currently consumed him. It was a vast, dark, frigid void that commanded all his thoughts to seize. He could have been like this for seconds, hours, years. He was alone; he had failed his charge and knew in his heart that he deserved every moment of his newfound nothingness.

Suddenly, for the briefest of moments, he thought he heard the ringing of a bell. He struggled to put words together in his mind. _More madness_ , he thought. But no, he heard a woman’s voice. _Who is speaking? Is it Lyssa? Has she--_

_There'll be no strings to bind your hands,_ _  
_ _Not if my love can't bind your heart._

Where before Castiel could feel nothing, he could now detect a slight burn, a tingling of the extremities not unlike a sleeping limb coming back to life. The singing grew louder.

_And there's no need to take a stand,_ _  
_ _For it was I who chose to start._

Castiel could feel his face, could sense his eyelids fluttering with newfound life. The burning in his limbs intensified, and he was able to pull a single, ragged breath into his searing lungs.

_I see no need to take me home,_ _  
_ _I'm old enough to face the dawn._

His hands returned suddenly, and he could move his head around in the dark void. But, somehow, the darkness wasn’t so complete anymore. Castiel looked down and could see a steadily increasing glow radiating from within his trouser pocket, and as the glow intensified so did the music, pushing away the darkness and giving him space to breathe.

_Just call me angel of the morning, angel,_  
_Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby._  
_Just call me angel of the morning, angel,_ _  
Then slowly turn away from me._

He frantically jammed his hand into his pocket, gripping the phone with his newfound hands like a drowning man clinging to a piece of jetsam. He pressed the answer button and rasped into the receiver, voice shuddering as his vocal chords slowly unseized, “H-Hello? Dean? D-Dean, is that you?”

“Cas!” shouted Dean, voice awash with sweet relief. “Pal, you have to tell me where you are!”

Cas shivered, brain unable to make the appropriate connections. “You are alive?”

“I told you I was coming for you, didn’t I?” smirked Dean. “I just need to know where you are, so I can find you.”

“Dean, I am in the… the madness, I-I t-told you before.”

“Well guess what?” he replied matter-of-factly, “I’m here too. Now tell me where you are, and I’ll come for you, and we’ll figure out a way to get back home. Together. But you have to tell me where you are. Understand?”

“Dean, no, you should not be here. There is no way out--”

“Cas!” snapped Dean, “I need you to focus. Be pissed at me later. Right now, I need your help.”

Castiel swallowed hard, trying to quell his anxiety. He tried to speak plainly. “I am, I am suspended in a realm of infinite darkness and freezing cold. The only reference point I have is the phone in my hand, its glow the only illumination.”

Dean blinked hard, squeezing his eyes together. His angel was so damn literal that it was endearing. What had Castiel done before, when he was with Dean in his dream?

“Cas,” he directed as calmly as he could, “I need you to put your feet on the ground.”

“But Dean, there is no--”

“Cas, listen. Just put your feet on the ground. It’s right beneath you, just inches away. Just stand. Stand on the ground.”

Castiel opened and closed his mouth, unable to think of a reply. How could he know? How could Dean make that inference--

Castiel suddenly felt solid ground beneath his feet. He was no longer floating. He kneeled down and pressed his hand to it. It was smooth, hard, and midnight black, glinting in the cool blue light of the phone screen.

“Dean, how did you--” started Castiel with wonder.

“Okay, Angel, you still with me?” Dean coached.

“Yes, Dean,” he replied gravelly, breath coming more evenly now.

“You are in a hallway. It’s dark because you haven’t turned the light on. You need to reach up and pull the chain to turn on the bulb. Can you do that, Cas?”

Castiel was still boggled, but did as he was bade. He reached above him, grasping several times until he felt a cool metal chain slide between his fingers. He tugged down on it, and suddenly a bright Edison bulb lit the short corridor in which Castiel suddenly found himself.

“Angel, did you do it? Are you in the hall?”

With every syllable Dean uttered, Castiel felt his confidence rise. He knew now what was going on, what Dean was doing. He smiled, almost imperceptibly. “Yes, Dean. I am in the hall.”  
“Do you see the door at the end of the hall?”

Castiel could have sworn the the hall had no doors, but then there it was. A single door right at the end of the short, black corridor. “Yes, I see it.”

“I need you to go unlock the door, Cas,” said Dean with loving, patient authority. Castiel could detect a hint of mirth; Dean was enjoying himself.

“Yes, Dean,” the angel replied, “I will do it now.” Castiel walked slowly, still unsure of himself, and when he reached the door he saw the smooth, round doorknob had a small locking mechanism dead center. He pinched it between his fingers and gently turned it. “Okay, Dean. It is unlocked.”

“Okay, Angel. Now… open the door.”

Castiel gripped the handle tightly and slowly rotated it while pushing the door inward. His eyes fell upon a familiar silhouette, broad shoulders and bow legs, cool phone light glancing off freckles and igniting the green of his eyes. Locked in each other’s gaze they both dropped their phones to the ground, softly parted mouths opening wide into grins of relief. Dean and Castiel fell into one another, arms reaching around one another’s backs, over each other’s shoulders, hugging tightly as if to confirm one another’s corporeality. Dean dove his face into his lover’s collarbone, unable to contain the stinging tears that he’d been fighting all day.

“Cas, I thought… I’m so sorry I didn’t call you sooner. Pray to you.”

Castiel could feel the hot droplets hitting his lapel, sliding down his neck. “No, Dean, it is I who should be sorry,” he soothed. “To leave you so soon, without warning or sufficient explanation… honestly I began to believe you would not come. Would not wish to come.”

Dean pulled his head back with a sniff, brows furrowed. “Cas, I will always come for you,” he said gruffly, voice cracking.

Cas blinked a few times and released his grip, slowly sliding away from Dean and into the garage. He tilted his head, eyes squinting curiously. “That is what you said before.”

“Yeah, it sure is,” agreed Dean heartily. “I'm glad you heard me!”

“When you were here before.”

Dean paused. “But I wasn’t here before. I just got here?” Dean struggled to follow Castiel’s line of thinking.

Castiel’s voice dropped an octave. “No, you were here. We spoke. You became angry with me, and you told me that you were going to leave me here just like I always leave you. Then you disappeared. So,” Castiel swallowed and grimaced, “how do I know that will not happen again?”

Dean’s eyes flew wide open and he shook his head in incredulity. “Because that wasn’t me?! I’m me! And I’m here!” His voice took on a more panicked, desperate tone. “Lyssa has Charlene and Sam under her control! I came here for you, and we can’t help them unless we can figure out a way back!”

Castiel clenched his fists and opened them again down at his sides. “I have seen a great many things since I have been down here, Dean. Lucifer, Metatron, Crowley… you. My mind is filling this space with my fears, my anxieties. My past is rewriting itself over and over.”

Dean made a motion as if to approach Castiel, but he held up his hand as warning. He spoke coldly, with a low, pulling gravity. “You have been upset with me before for leaving you behind. You have shown me affection. You have stood here with me in this very garage. We have traveled your dreams, you have used all my tricks.” He tilted his head, cobalt eyes fading to navy as his countenance grew heavy. “I do not know what is real and what is not, because I can simply recycle my past experiences to make new ones. There is nothing you can do to prove to me you are not simply one of Lyssa’s proxies. I know you too well.”

“Cas, I am not a friggin’ proxy!” shouted Dean in frustration. “I’m here to help!”

Cas said nothing, just stared sadly at the man whose muscles slackened and tightened in frustration, face twisting in helpless horror.

“You need me to prove it to you? I’ll prove it to you!” said Dean desperately.

Castiel gave a small, defeated shrug that tore Dean’s heart out and threw it on the ground, and a hopeless look that caused it to wither. “You can try,” he said softly.


	25. Intent

Sam gazed in awe at Charlene as she floated over his brother, pulsating with darkness. She was not a shadow; she was the source of all shadows, the tear in this plane from whence they emanated. She absorbed the light, and Sam knew that this powerful, terrifying woman was destined for something even darker. She was twilight, dusk, that great swath of purple suppressing the moon and stars right after sunset. She filled him to the brim with gratitude and fury. All of his empty spaces were sealed with tar, seared shut with rage, and smoothed over with complete and utter adoration. 

The crows calmed and settled back onto the branches of the tree. Charlene turned toward Sam and landed lightly on the ground, her darkness dimming as her eyes returned from red to her flashing azure. She looked upon Sam with sadness softening her face. He strode towards her, seized her by her hips, and leaned in to press a kiss deep into her mouth. She went rigid at first but then melted into the soft contours of his lips; delicate red tendrils of mist coiled around their feet and curled about their calves. She parted her mouth ever so slightly, allowing his eager tongue to dart into her mouth. His ardor pushed into her, clearing a path through her mind, creating safe passage through which her apprehensions were able to pass. She pulled away from him breathlessly, and mumbled, “Sam, no.”

The mist at their feet collapsed and dissipated, and Sam blinked rapidly. His own subconscious pressed against the red wall in his mind. His eyes darted towards his brother and then back to Charlene, and he felt an itch deep down inside, ignorable but persistent. It was as if there was a word right at the tip of his tongue but he lacked the perspicacity to retrieve it.

From behind her, Charlene could hear her mother’s voice. “Darling, it is time,” it soothed. “She awaits you.” Charlene felt the gentle caress of her mother’s hand across her back. In her heart, she knew that was all she ever wanted from her mother. She wanted her love, and only her love, love that had only ever been previously afforded to Lyssa. But at what cost? Castiel? Dean? 

Sam brought one hand up along the length of Charlene’s arm to eventually rest on her jaw. His face was one of adoration, but Charlene could see into his eyes, into him, and she knew that he was hers against his will. He would do anything for her, but not out of love for her. Lyssa’s madness took him, just like it took her other friends. Her only friends.

“He needs to complete the rite, my love,” insisted Pearl. The righteous man needs to die, it is not enough that he remains trapped.”

Charlene took Sam’s hand, withdrew it from her cheek and slipped away, turning toward her mother with tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. “Please, mom, don’t make me hurt my friends.”

“Who said anything about you hurting your friends?” sighed Pearl. “He,” she said, pointing to Sam, ”will make the offering. He is yours now, my love, just as I promised. He only awaits your command.”

“Mom, no,” she replied with greater insistence. “I can’t ask that of him. I don’t want a thrall! I want him, as he is. I want him to care for  _ me _ , not Lyssa!”

“You  _ are  _ Lyssa,” her mother whispered, softness turning harsher. “You always have been. Now take your place, your promised place, and then together we can set the world right!”

Charlene grew louder, more insistent. “And what exactly is wrong with the world? What will I fix by giving up the people I care about?”

Pearl’s tone darkened further. “It is men like that,” she said, jabbing a finger toward Dean, “who think they know what is best for this world, who ignore the old gods, who treat them like illnesses that need curing. Men like your father, who give up and run away in the face of adversity. The world needs a new start! Only Lyssa, only you, can weed out the weak, the prideful, the cocksure! Only  _ you  _ can set these men upon themselves. Only  _ you  _ can clear the way!” 

Charlene tried to step away, eyes wide with rising panic, but Pearl snatched her by the wrist. She turned her head back toward Sam, who was slowly blinking. She could see that more of him was pushing through, past the haze, past the influence of Lyssa. “Sam!” she called out, “Sam! Listen to me! You need to go! Take your brother and leave!”

He took a step forward and spoke flatly, words that were not his own, “I don’t ever want to leave you.”

“Please, Sam!” Her voice became shriller, more insistent as Lyssa’s grip on her weakened. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, searching for a plan of action, then opened them again. She knew what to do. She intoned lowly, her voice deep and forceful. “Sam, you  _ will  _ do as I ask. I will  _ not  _ be refused. Do you understand?”

His brow furrowed for an instant, a flicker of hesitation crossed his face and was quickly erased by a look of adoration. “Yes,” he said breathlessly. “I do.”

“Good,” spat Pearl, who then forcefully yanked Charlene’s arm up and slammed her palm against the trunk of the tree.

Charlene’s body was filled with searing, seething red that tried to blot out all thoughts, all reservations, but she pushed back. She tried to focus her thoughts, recall images to keep her tethered to the ground. Memories flew through his mind until one stuck.

_ Castiel _ .

She saw Castiel, sitting despondently in the diner, fiddling with his hands nervously. She saw him carrying stacks of pie and laying them in the backseat of the Impala. She heard him practicing his song for Dean, low voice reverberating with insecurity. She remembered the feeling of his hand in hers as she flew through the celestial whiteness, and the summery, salty smell of his hair as she pressed in to kiss the top of his head. She remembered him running to her to take her away from this place. She remembered his innocence. His selflessness. His goodness. His light. She focused in on that thought, the remembrance of his soft glow, and how it lit up the eyes of those he loved. She gritted her teeth and pitted that light against the insistent, relentless red that threatened to collapse the bubble of her free will, and as she did she felt her head clearing. Suddenly, she heard Sam’s confused voice from behind her.

“Ch-Charlene? What’s happening? Why is Dean--”

“Aaagh!” screamed Pearl in a fury. “Enough of these games!” She reached around Charlene and unsheathed her kerambit, marched up to Sam who stood blinking in confusion, and sliced into his torso with the nasty blade once, twice, blood spattering against her grey coat and the trunk of the tree. He choked, then dropped to his knees, pressing his hands to his torso. Blood oozed through his fingers, soaking his shirt as his eyes locked on Charlene in helpless confusion. Her own eyes fluttered open, her gaze piercing the veil, and her face twisted in horror when she saw what Pearl had done. Sam collapsed on the ground, writhing and sputtering.

Castiel’s light in Charlene was suddenly extinguished, and it was replaced with a dark void into which all the redness and rage flooded, swirling, boiling, seeping through every crack. Her low voice rose to a guttural roar, all madness and fury and despair coalescing into one sound, the only sound, and Pearl dropped the kerambit in awe. 

She called over her daughter’s exclamation, struggling to be heard. “It is time! Take the righteous man!”

With her hand still attached to the tree, Charlene turned and fixed her wrath not on Dean, but on her mother. Pearl hopped back with a spasm, blinking furiously, breath coming out in a sputter. Charlene’s eyes were again awash in red, her form a penumbra over something deeper, older. Her voice was the rumble of thunder, the groaning of the earth itself. 

“HE WAS MINE,” she intoned with fathomless wrath. “YOU HAD NO RIGHT.”

“He was in the way, my love!” shouted Pearl. “He was clouding your true intent!” Tears began to well in her eyes as she looked on her daughter with despair.

“YOU DO NOT KNOW MY INTENT. YOU NEVER DID.” The crows began cackling again, maniacal laughter that grew as red mist began oozing up from the root system of the vast tree.  _ Charlene’s tree _ . Pearl tried to take a step forward but was stopped as a tendril of red snaked around her leg. 

“Charlene, please, you were promised!” pleaded Pearl, reaching a bloodied hand out to her daughter. Another tendril snapped out, lashing against her other leg, and then two more whipped up around her arms, pulling her to her knees. “He’s just a man! A worthless, self-righteous man! You meant nothing to him! Men like him value nothing but themselves!”

“THAT’S A LIE!” Charlene roared as her form began to consume the light around them. The crows left their perches and clouded the sky, and the dogs that had previously stood as silent guardians rose, hackles high. They growled, low and reverberant, joining the chorus of birds. “DAD LEFT BECAUSE YOU DID NOT VALUE HIM. YOU DID NOT VALUE ME.”

The mist rose higher around Pearl, choking her with hot miasma. She tried to speak, but could only cough and sputter. Suddenly, the dogs lunged forward and the crows dove, unleashing all of Charlene’s wrath with tooth and talon, beak and claw. She closed her eyes and let fury wash over her like a storm surge, the rage drowning out the agonized, terrified screaming of her mother until all she heard was the rushing of blood in her ears and the white hot fulminating madness in the pit of her mind. 


	26. Assbutt

Dean guided Castiel into the garage. He paced back and forth, one hand on the small of his back, the other pinching the bridge of his nose again. His eyes were closed as he struggled to think of a way to fulfill his promise, to prove to Castiel that he was who he claimed. Castiel stood stiffly in front of the Impala, hands at his sides, furrowed brow over downcast eyes.

Dean hurt. He more than hurt; he was devastated. He’d fought so hard to get to Castiel, to save him from this place, and now that he was here Castiel couldn’t even tell him from a shade. But, wasn’t that the case when Castiel first visited Dean’s dream? Dean wasn’t able to push the shades away alone; Castiel made a show of strength, a declaration of love. He vaporized Dean’s fear and self-loathing. But what was Castiel afraid of? What did he hate himself for? If Dean could make a similar show of strength, of love, perhaps that would be enough to embolden his angel. The main problem remained, however; this was not Dean’s mind. He was able to manipulate it in small ways, but he didn’t have the power required to do much more. Castiel, however, was able to manipulate the environment completely, whether he believed he could or not. Castiel had the celestial power of his grace, and Dean knew that it had to at least rival anything Lyssa could throw at them. Castiel just needed to believe it for himself.

_ Start small, Winchester, _ Dean thought to himself.  _ Little things, like the phone and the light. _

Dean stopped pacing and turned towards Cas, who stood with the Impala behind him. “So, uh… Cas?” he started awkwardly, “Did you, uh… see I fixed up Baby? Look, she’s good as new.” He bit back a wince, knowing full well the car behind his angel was wrecked, possibly beyond even Dean’s skill to repair. However, as Castiel turned the car shimmered for a moment, as if moving through a hot air current barreling down a desert highway, and by the time Castiel laid his eyes upon it, it had indeed returned back to its former glory, dark and slick and lovely as ever.

“Hot damn,” he muttered.  _ At least part of Cas knows I’m me, trusts me, _ he thought hopefully. _ Let’s see what else we can do. _

Upon beholding the car, Castiel let slip a small, wistful smile. “She is quite lovely, Dean,” he said, voice low and soft.

“You remember singing me that song, right Angel?” Dean asked warmly. “You remember the pie?” He sidled up next to Castiel, forearms brushing against one another sending a familiar tingle running up both their spines. Dean heard Castiel emit a nearly imperceptible gasp. “That was hands down the sweetest thing  _ anyone  _ has ever done for me.  _ Ever _ .”

“That was my intent, and you are telling me what I want to hear,” Castiel replied, voice hinting at sadness.

Dean powered through. “Cas, I got something for ya in the trunk. I found it, and I saved it for you.” He swallowed. “Thought you might like to wear it.”

Castiel turned and raised an eyebrow. Dean tried to casually saunter over to pop the trunk but stumbled slightly as Castiel walked around to the back of the car.  _ Please let him find his trenchcoat. Please be there. I know he wants it to be there. _

Castiel opened the trunk and looked down with a curious squint.

_ Oh no, it’s not there, is it? Oh fuc-- _

Castiel reached down and produced a blue and green flannel shirt from the trunk. He looked up at Dean and flashed a little smile. He closed the trunk and set the shirt on top of it. 

“I would be honored to wear this, Dean,” he said, rough voice suddenly shy. He reached up to unbutton the top of his dress shirt, but Dean hurried toward him and reached out to stop his hands. Castiel shrank back slightly at his approach, and Dean froze in his tracks. 

“Cas, I’m sorry,” he said, haltingly. “I, uh… would you like some help with that?”

Castiel ever so slowly let his taut muscles relax, and then said, “From Dean, I do, yes.”

“Angel,” said Dean hoarsely, “I’m either the real Dean, or your dream Dean.” He slowly reached his hand up toward Castiel’s, who was still clinging to his dress shirt. “If I’m the real Dean, you have nothing to fear, and if I’m just a figment of your imagination? Well, pal, hate to break it to you, but you are far more badass than me. You could break me in half if you wanted to, so imagine--”

Castiel grabbed Dean’s hand suddenly, and for a moment Dean was frightened that Castiel was actually  _ going  _ to break him in half, but instead the angel yanked Dean toward him, and brought his hand up to his top button.

“That is the furthest thing from my mind,” the angel purred.

Dean stepped forward, he and Castiel sharing one space, and brought his other hand up to slowly, carefully undo one button. “Is this okay, Cas?” he barely more than whispered. The angel gave a small nod, flat blue eyes sparking into their familiar azure burn. Dean let his fingers trail downward to undo the next button, and then the next, Castiel’s piercing gaze firmly securing Dean’s own sparkling eyes. Dean let slip a half smile that he quickly pulled back, biting the corner of his lip. 

Dean finished undoing the final button and let the shirt hang open, his hands brushing the front of the angel’s hips. Even the small slice of exposed skin caused lust to bubble up from deep down inside Dean, through layers of anxiety and hopelessness and desperation. How he’d missed the now familiar contours of Castiel’s body, lithe muscles pulling shadows across his smooth, creamy skin. Every part of Castiel had a purpose, a method, a message to convey via action. The taut muscles of his chest and abdomen said in their own language that Castiel was not a force to be reckoned with, and the fingertips the grazed against Dean’s own quietly announced their own intentions. Then, his feet made their proclamation as Castiel slowly turned his back to Dean.

Dean reached up and under Castiel’s collar, then slowly, deliberately pulled the shirt down and over his shoulders. Castiel’s back was a magnificent sight to behold, somehow smooth yet structured, soft yet sinewy. He knew the angel was shockingly strong, far stronger than himself, and the thought of him making a show of that strength ignited a fire low in his abdomen. He continued to slide the shirt down, and helped Castiel pull out one arm, then the other. He turned toward the Impala to exchange it for Castiel’s new shirt, and when he turned back he found the angel toe to toe with him again, noses and chests mere inches apart. It was all Dean could do not to lunge forward and ravage him, but he held himself back. He needed Castiel to know that he himself was in control of this place, not Dean.

“You are gorgeous, you know that right?” intoned Dean faintly, eyes darting alternatingly between the balled up shirt in his hands and the tantalizing contours of Castiel’s jaw, neck, and shoulders. The man felt suddenly shy, face awash in gratitude that he was chosen, that he was the one out of all of God’s creations that Castiel wanted. Dean Winchester, Righteous Man and herald of the apocalypse, former Knight of Hell, a man who again and again hurt Castiel, pushed him away. And yet, here the angel was, as he always was, by his side. 

Dean gingerly handed the shirt to Castiel, and he took it, running his fingers through its creases and folds with reverence. He pinched it and let it fall open, then slowly slid it on, one arm and then the other. Dean snapped out of his trance and took a step back to admire the long, strong fingers of his angel deftly snap every button into place. Upon finishing, Castiel held his arms out in presentation, asking wordlessly for Dean’s approval.

“Looks great on you, Cas,” he smiled. 

Castiel’s eyes crinkled as he eyed his human carefully. He could detect no difference between the man who stood before him and the one he knew he loved from above. It was all he could do not to fall into him, pulled in by the enormous gravity of his grin, his eyes, his taste. But he also knew that second only to Sam, he knew Dean better than anyone, and perhaps even more because it was only Castiel who had seen inside of Dean, who had grasped the white hot corona of the man’s soul. If this Dean was indeed a shade, he was conjured to keep Castiel passive, trapped, while the real Dean suffered in the conscious realm. His own complacency would be the real cause of Dean’s demise, and when that happened Lyssa would have no need of Castiel at all. As long as he was trapped in this place, Castiel knew that Dean was alive, but the longer he remained the deeper he would dip into his own madness. But what had Crowley said before?

_ We aren’t really working against you, you must see that. _

Dean knew he needed to further test Castiel’s influence and power over… wherever they were. They were trapped in the garage, so the next logical step would be to leave it. However, Dean had tried opening the doors to no avail. Perhaps Castiel could do it?

“Cas, I think we should go now,” Dean tried to suggest casually. “I’m going to look for the keys. Go open the garage door.” He turned and started patting his pockets, and Castiel eyed him with suspicion. 

“I know what you are trying to do, Dean,” he growled. 

Dean stopped and turned, anxious that he’d been found out. “And what would that be?”

“You are trying to get me to exert control over this realm.”

Dean cleared his throat and croaked, “Yes? And?”

“And if I can see your blatant attempts at manipulation, how can you expect me to trust you?” he gravelled.

Dean’s voice took on a tone of frustration. “Cas! You’re the only one who can get us out of this place!”

Castiel’s voice flattened, and if it were any other person Dean would think he was indifferent, but he knew that the more controlled Castiel’s voice became, the more emotion simmered underneath. “That is not true. If you are a shade, then you can manipulate this realm. If you are indeed Dean, then you are strong, resilient, and with sufficient motivation can achieve anything.” His voice dropped, increased in gravity. “So, you are either  _ not  _ Dean and playing me for a fool, or you  _ are  _ Dean and not living up to your potential. Either is unacceptable.”

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but where words should have been there resided only apprehensions. 

“Dean,  _ you  _ called  _ me _ , remember? How did you do that? It was either a show of strength or a tell of deception. Now, assbutt” he rasped aggressively, “either reach into your pocket and pull out your keys, or leave me to my own devices because  _ my  _ Dean does not need to stoop to emotional manipulations.”

Dean’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, and as commanded he reached into his pocket. Keys, the keys were there just as Castiel had said. He pulled them out and stared at them in his hand with disbelief.

“Good,” said Castiel smugly. With that, he walked over and slapped garage door button, and they both turned to see it rattle open, small smiles ghosting across their faces.

“Do you believe me yet? That I’m me?” asked Dean softly.

Castiel turned back toward his human. “No, not yet,” he responded sadly. “But, I no longer think you are working against me.”

“Well, I’d say that’s a start.”


	27. The Jabberwock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literary reference: Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll

“Ch-Charlene…” choked Sam from his prone position at her feet. Charlene’s eyes flew open as the redness retreated, and she noticed that the sounds of the crows and dogs had ceased. Her eyes rolled upward to where the crows perched silently, eyeing her watchfully. She stepped back from the tree, its hold on her momentarily severed by Sam's voice. The dogs had retreated elsewhere, leaving behind Pearl’s body, bloodied and mangled. Dean remained untouched, prone on the ground, breathing shallowly.  Sam stared at her wide-eyed, breath ragged. He tried to prop himself up with a groan and a hiss, but dropped back down, clutching his stomach. His shirt was dark with blood, and his wan skin was pulled taut across his face. 

Charlene emitted a shuddering gasp as she dropped to her knees beside him. Her hands hovered over him, unsure of where to land. Through gritted teeth she whispered, “Oh, Sam… Sammy, no…” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head as if to clear away a nightmare, but he was still there, still dying on the ground when she opened her eyes again. “Sammy,” she whispered, “are you with me? Did she, did she let you go?”

Sam winced and extended a bloodied hand that she took without hesitation. With her help he pulled himself up to sitting and leaned against her, panting from the exertion. He swallowed, then winced, “She didn't let me go; you kicked her ass.” He tried to smile, but all he could muster was a grimace; Charlene tried to smile, but only managed to choke back a sob. She clutched his hand tightly and he responded in kind. For a while neither of them spoke, but then Charlene broke in. 

“She's not gone, Sammy. I can feel her. She still has Dean, still has Castiel.” Her tears tried to flow freely, but she sniffed them away. “I don't know how to get them back,” she whispered in defeat. “I'm the reason for all of this. I did this.”

Sam winced, then squeezed her hand tighter. “You didn't do this. Your mother did. You didn't ask for this--” he hissed, “it was forced upon you. You came back to help, because you're a good person. You--” 

“Sam,” she interrupted breathily, “I came back because I'm a masochist! I came back because deep down I know that this is what I deserve. What I want. Something… not normal.” She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. When she opened them again, she was shocked to see Sam smiling through the pain. 

“You couldn't be normal if you tried,” he murmured woozily. “Lyssa can't hold you because you're… abnormal. All the rage, the madness, you reject it. You care about others, and you know you're worth more than… this,” he tipped his head toward the trunk of the tree. With that, Sam’s eyes rolled back into his head as his eyelashes fluttered a warning. 

“No!” she exclaimed, looking frantically over his body, trying to generate a plan from nothing but self loathing and adoration for her shocking red, the brightest thing in her day. She leaned in and patted his face with her free hand, “Sammy, Sammy,” she gasped, “stay with me, come back!” He opened his eyes and moaned softly, brow moist and face drained of color, and she sighed with relief.  _ Keep him awake, keep him with you until you can figure out a plan.  _

“Sammy,” she whispered, “do you remember my bookshelf? My journey?” 

“Of course,” he said weakly.  

“Do you remember my books from the beginning? From when I was little?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said with a small smile. 

“Which was your favorite?” she whispered, struggling to maintain composure. 

“Through the Looking Glass,” he said without hesitation, voice a little stronger. 

“Good choice. So then I bet you know Jabberwocky, huh?”

He swallowed hard and nodded softly. Charlene held the side of his face and he leaned into her hand. 

“Recite it for me, Sammy,” she hummed comfortingly. 

He began, hoarsely at first, but then he closed his eyes and the words came out more confidently, more controlled.

“`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves   
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:   
All mimsy were the borogoves,   
And the mome raths outgrabe.”

She couldn't help but to smile as she responded in kind. She used all the prosody she could muster, hoping to give him at least one small reason to hold on, to stay with her. 

"’Beware the Jabberwock, my son!   
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!   
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun   
The frumious Bandersnatch!’"

She leaned in and gently rested her temple to his, and felt his tattered breath caressing her neck. Suddenly, she could feel the sharp tug of crimson, the call of Lyssa. The bark of the tree began to ooze again with red mist that coiled around them.

“Sammy…” she quavered. 

“Keep going,” he whispered. “You're provoking her.”

She gave a small nod and continued, whispering into his ear, 

“He took his vorpal sword in hand:   
Long time the manxome foe he sought.”

He finished the line for her without pause,

“So rested he by the Tumtum tree,   
And stood awhile in thought.”

She pulled her head away slightly, brushing her cheek along his until they were nose to nose. The air around them was an almost opaque crimson, and above the crows began their song anew. 

“You've got this, Charlene,” he breathed. “Make her mad, make her show herself.”

“But I, I don't know how to fight her,” Charlene stammered, anxiety drawing her words taut. “I don’t have--” Suddenly, she was hit with a vision, a flash from before. Castiel glowing softly from within, a light that was everything Lyssa was not: Kindness, patience, and unadulterated good. She knew now what to do. She shifted and gently turned Sam’s head so that their lips grazed one another. He caught her mouth gratefully in his, and together they kissed passionately, not for themselves but for one another. It was a kiss of gratitude, of reverence, of shared understanding. It was a kiss that stilled the air, that muted the cacophony above, that centered them both in the storm of rage that threatened to blow them away. Charlene pulled back breathlessly and tilted her head upward, shouting through the cloud.

“And, as in uffish thought he stood,   
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,   
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,   
And burbled as it came!”

She dove into Sam and renewed her kiss, pushing in deeper, exploring with wonderment the one good thing she still had in the world, the last person who cared for her not as a means to an end, but as she was. Sam cherished her, didn’t blame her, didn’t judge her. She wasn’t normal, and he adored her for it. He let go of her hand and ran his own up through her hair, holding fast to her like a lifeline in a rising flood. They could feel the air around them deepen and swirl as the great murder of crows took to the air in a living cyclone. Sam broke his mouth away from Charlene’s and pulled her in tighter. She curled up next to him protecting him the best she could without putting pressure on his wound. She nodded her head against his and together they shouted in unison, through the turbulent lamentations of the birds, through the red haze, over Lyssa’s inimitable roar,

“One, two! One, two! And through and through   
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!   
He left it dead, and with its head   
He went galumphing back!”

Within her, Charlene felt something new rise up, a cool, white hiss that filled her with calm and renewed purpose. It felt like happiness. It felt like hope. She smiled and pulled Sam toward her with her left hand, kissing him with longing and grace. He moaned into her mouth, and she hummed back, smiling into his lips. As she did, she slapped the flat of her right hand forcefully against the bark of the tree. There was a flash of white, and then nothing.


	28. In Through the Out Door

Dean climbed into the driver’s seat of the Impala and Castiel slid in next to him. Dean nervously drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and turned his head toward his angel. 

“So, where to?” asked Dean gruffly, trying and failing to mask his unease. 

“I, for one, would like to go home,” replied the angel flatly.

Dean chuckled nervously. 

“I do not see what is funny,” he said with a seriousness that wiped the smirk right off Dean’s face.

“I only mean to say… well, we  _ are  _ home, Cas.”

“This is no more our home than a fishtank is the ocean,” replied the angel in disgust.

“Well, you see Cas, that’s where you and I are going to have to agree to disagree. Home? Home is family. Home is…” Dean swallowed, uncomfortable voicing his own sentiments, even when they came from the heart. “Well it’s you and me and Sam. It doesn’t matter where we are, as long as we’re together. That’s home.”

Castiel tilted his head in his curious way and stared at Dean, unblinking eyes two windows looking out onto a stormy sea. “Then we go to Sam.”

Dean nodded and turned over the engine, shifted into drive, and pulled forward up and out of the garage. Rather than emerging out the exit onto the gravel drive alongside the bunker, they found themselves moving through a dark tunnel. Dean switched on the headlights which illuminated a two lane road, white lane lines with a yellow median. The tunnel curved gently to the right, and as far as either of them could tell it stretched on forever. Castiel rolled down his window to allow the cool breeze to wash over him, to increase his alertness. 

Dean started to feel a creeping claustrophobia exert pressure on his brain. They drove for a few minutes in silence, never reaching a destination. Finally, he spoke.

“Cas, I don’t like this.”

“Then do something about it,” clipped the angel.

Dean swallowed. “Help me?”

“You should take the next right,” he commanded.

“Wait, what right?”

“This one,” he said, pointing to a turnoff that suddenly appeared from nowhere.

Dean stomped the break and took a skidding turn, and then gunned the engine to accelerate forward. The road began to gain elevation, moving upward toward a new destination.

“Where does this go?” asked Dean anxiously.

“Home, hopefully. To Sam.”

Suddenly, the tunnel opened up into a forest, road devoured by thousands of fluttering autumn leaves in shades of gold and vermillion. Dean let the car roll to a stop. They were surrounded by great sycamore trees, a vast grove stretching as far as they could see in every direction. Dean turned off the engine and they both sat for a moment, listening to the chorus of whispers made by the remaining leaves that still clung to the branches. 

Dean noticed Castiel shudder. 

“What is it, angel?” Dean asked with soft concern.

“This is the beginning,” he said, voice strained by some invisible memory. “I have come back around.”

“That's good!” exclaimed Dean. “If this is the entrance, then it’s also an exit!”

“Dean, I do not believe one can always go in through the out door,” he chided.

“Cas, I don’t care what kind of door it is. We’re going to find it, and I’m going to take it right off its friggin’ hinges. Let's go.”

Dean threw open the car door and practically lept out. Castiel followed, albeit with greater hesitation, mind fluttering with a foreboding sort of deja vu. Just as he slammed the car door, a great gust of wind picked up handfuls of leaves, sending them scuttling across the ground, and snatched even more from the branches of the trees for good measure. The leaves swirled at their feet and twisted up into the air, small cyclones of rust and ochre hushing the trepidatious footfalls of the men. Softly, the wind died down again, and suddenly a large, black crow flew overhead. Dean ducked, a reflexive action prompted by his previous encounter with the birds. 

“Jesus!” he exclaimed, hands flying upward in a protective gesture. Castiel made no such gesture. He had been waiting for something like this, anticipating another sign of some kind. He followed the bird with a squint to where it landed on a branch approximately ten yards away. It stared at the pair of them with hard, black eyes.

Both Castiel and Dean froze in their tracks, and slowly looked over at one another across the hood of the Impala. Their eyes met but then darted back to the bird who cawed ominously over the whispering of the woods. The bird flapped, then took to the air again, landing five yards closer to where they stood. It cawed again, then flew back to its original perch, eyeing them curiously, cocking its head as if impatient. 

Castiel looked back to Dean, who seemed to understand as he gave a slight nod. They both walked and to the front of the car and came together to stand side by side, forearms brushing again. 

“We followin’?” asked the hunter uncertainly. 

“Do you have a better idea?” Castiel gruffly responded. 

“Nope.”

“So we follow.”

The crow seemed to know their intentions, and with that it flew off again, landing another twenty yards ahead. It squawked and hopped about on its perch.

“Little fucker seems to be in a bit of a hurry, doesn’t he?” muttered Dean.

“Then perhaps we should hurry as well.”

Dean nodded and they picked up the pace, half-jogging through the trees at the bird’s insistence. It started flying further and further away, calling more insistently, and panic began to rise in Dean’s chest. It was a challenge to pull in the air he needed as the pair began moving faster through the trees, ominous trunks reaching up toward a grey sky. He knew deep down that something terrible was about to happen, or was already happening, and the only herald of their doom was this infuriating, terrifying fucking bird.

Castiel’s muscles were filled with tension. He knew the party, as Crowley had called it, was starting, that Lyssa was rising. He clenched his jaw as he ran after the bird, panic burning through his vessel’s veins. Dean was about to die, and he could do absolutely nothing to stop it. 

Suddenly, a huge gust of wind roared through the trees and the pair found themselves in a great clearing. In the middle was the huge sycamore from before, six foot trunk towering up through the canopy and into the grey haze above. Dean skidded to a stop next to Castiel, jaw slack, eyes huge. The leaves on the ground were obscured by a crimson mist that coiled serpentinely along the ground. Castiel could see in Dean’s face that this was not the first time he’d laid eyes on such a sight. Dean looked to Castiel, countenance pleading. His pupils were blown wide, relegating the malachite of his eyes to thin rings haloing windows into his mind. In them flickered a kind of despair reserved only for times when Dean truly believed that he was choiceless, when he was his most human and vulnerable. Eyes that pleaded for help when he was too proud to form the words. Castiel could see the man’s soul sputtering, and a sharp and terrible pain began burning within his own chest. Dean’s lips were softly parted, his breath shallow and rapid, and it was in that moment Castiel knew. It was Dean, the real Dean.  _ His  _ Dean.

He had come for him, just like he said he would. He had come at great personal risk, not knowing how or whether he’d be able to get back. Dean believed in him, even when he challenged him, even when he pushed him away. Now, Castiel knew that despite their ability to exert some control over this place, he was going to lose him. They were trapped, brought full circle through Lyssa’s maze. Resolutely, Castiel turned toward Dean, cobalt eyes aflame with a fury Dean had only seen reserved for smiting. His angel looked to be on the verge of exploding.

“Cas,” he spoke weakly, “I--”

Before he could finish his sentence, Castiel was upon him, hands sliding up his lover’s torso and around his neck. He pressed his lips into Dean’s with fervor, causing Dean to open his mouth and moan. Castiel took the opportunity to slip his tongue in ever so slightly, running it along the contours of Dean’s lips, the tip of his tongue teasing Dean’s. Dean shivered, and gave a small whimper as Castiel broke away. 

“I am deeply sorry for not believing you earlier,” said the angel with a shame-filled rasp, the burn in his eyes diminishing. “You came here for me, and now I am going to lose you. It is my fault.”

The red haze began to thicken and rise, oozing from the cracks in the tree back and up from the roots roiling under the ground.

“Cas!” Dean exclaimed, “this place can’t hurt us! It’s, it’s…” he struggled with the words, “It’s meant to make us complacent. Give up!” He reached down and grabbed Castiel by the arm, pulling him close. “I’m never giving up on you, you hear me angel? We’re gonna wake up!”

The light in Castiel’s eyes went out completely, and Dean began to feel his own light go out as well. The man grasped his angel by the hand and marched forward up to the great tree. As he got closer the mist thickened into a miasma and the call of the wind through the leaves intensified. He stood, facing the trunk, and shouted to Castiel over the noise, “She’s in here! I know it! The tree upstairs, it has some influence over Sam, over Charlene!” He turned to the angel, grasping him by the shoulders. You have to destroy it, Cas! Just like you did in my dream! 

Castiel’s eyes fluttered closed, helplessness ghosting across his face. “Dean,” he faltered, “I cannot. I am not strong enough. I am not welcome here. She is… she has a hold on me.”

“Cas, goddamnit, you are an Angel of the Lord! Lyssa ain’t got nothin’ on you!” Dean shook him and his eyes fluttered open. “You have to try!”

Castiel pressed his lips together in a thin, white line. He had stoked his grace before, with thoughts of his Dean. He could do so again. He would not lose him, not after finally finding him. Dean was his now, and the thought of anyone or anything trying to take him away flooded him with righteous, inimitable rage. His eyes flared again, fierce and fiery. 

“There’s my angel,” whispered Dean with awe.

“Stand back, Dean,” commanded Castiel, voice rumbling with ferocity. Dean did as he was bade as Castiel’s torso began to glow, dimly at first. He took deep, anger-fueled breaths that fanned the flames inside. Dean had to hold one hand up to shield his eyes as the light intensified, and suddenly Castiel’s huge black wings exploded behind him, swirling with shades of violet and indigo, crackling with static. 

All of Dean’s hair stood on end as ozone began to coalesce around Castiel, charging the air and infuriating the rising red mist. Crimson tendrils began lashing out at the angel’s legs and waist, but Castiel was oblivious as his grace formed at tight, hot ball. He exhaled a rumbling roar that shook the ground and trees and air, vibrating the molecules of Dean’s body, realigning every atom in a hopeful direction. Castiel extended one arm, and then there was an achromatic detonation of righteousness than caused Dean to duck and cover, but in an instant it dissipated. Dean stood, blinking his vision clear, and saw Castiel, wingless, crumpled on the ground and panting as the tree continued to groan, mist still rising. 

Dean ran to Castiel and kneeled next to him, blinking back tears, panicked breaths tearing at his chest. The bloody brume was up to their necks and advancing as they crouched on the ground. Castiel stared down at his hands and muttered something Dean could not make out. He could see his angel’s blank, glassy eyes wet with self-loathing and disappointment. He leaned in and wrapped his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and anxiously breathed, “What happened, Cas?”

“I, I do not know,” said Castiel with a wince. “The force from the blast should have been more than sufficient to obliterate the tree. I was so angry, angrier than I have ever been before when smiting someone.” His eyes followed up Dean’s shirt to his face, deep blue eyes wide under furrowed brows. “I have failed.”

Dean coughed as the mist increased again, lapping at their faces. He popped up and extended his hand to Castiel, who took it and shakily rose to his feet. He struggled to find solid footing in his weakened state and instead fell forward onto Dean who caught him and helped him stay upright.

“Easy, pal,” he murmured softly to the angel in a calm voice belied by a slight quaver. Castiel was right; that tree should’ve been a goner. All of Castiel’s righteous angel rage was not enough to combat Lyssa; she had broken him.


	29. The Lighthouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music reference: Ramble On by Led Zeppelin  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l7fdZnuCY6A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who've been so patient as to make it this far, I present to you the smutty chapter!
> 
> There's a very tiny Easter egg. See if you can find it!

Tears spilled from Castiel’s eyes and Dean caught them on his shirt as he pulled in friend into him, holding him and gently swaying back and forth. The angel clutched him around the waist tightly, as if someone or something would try to pry them apart. Castiel rested his chin on Dean’s shoulder and whispered into his ear, “I don’t want to say goodbye to you.”

“Who said anything about goodbyes?” the hunter whispered comfortingly. “If she takes me, I know you’ll find me. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, I’ll wait for you to come.”

Castiel swallowed hard and gravelled through his tears. “Not if she keeps me here. She’ll kill you, and then make me stay.”

Dean pulled away slightly to look Castiel in the eye. What he saw in them utterly broke him. He looked crazed, almost deranged with panic, breath coming out in mere shudders. “Cas,” he started, speaking loudly and plainly to be heard over the trees, “that isn’t going to happen. So, you weren’t able to defeat her with your anger? So what? We have something she doesn’t have!”

“And what might that be, exactly?” rasped Castiel in desperation.

Dean let his hands slide down Castiel’s arms to his hands. He checked to see if Castiel could stand unaided then took a step back. He knew what he needed to do, what he’d wanted ever since he’d laid eyes on Castiel all those years ago. He wanted to love him, wanted him to feel loved.

“Angel, I need you to do me a favor.” He inhaled deeply through his nose and cleared his throat. “I need you to hand me the tape player. The one on the stool behind you.”  
Castiel blinked rapidly a few times, having trouble comprehending Dean’s request, but then he gave a small half-smile. He slowly turned and behind him stood a four legged stool, and atop it rested a black cassette tape player. His smile turned into a grin as he picked it up and handed it to Dean. Dean took it gratefully, and then fished around in his pocket until he pulled out a white cassette tape. On the side of the tape were two words: _For Cas_. He slid the tape in the slot and then handed it back to Castiel. “Okay, Cas, press play.”

Castiel did as he was bade, and the sound of a tinny guitar escaped the speakers. Castiel recognized it instantly, Dean’s favorite song. It had an immediate soothing effect, and Castiel could swear that the mist shrank back ever so slightly. Dean stepped toward him and took the player, setting it back onto the stool. He took Castiel by one hand and rested the other on the angel’s waist. Just then, Robert Plant’s voice started up, and to Castiel’s great shock Dean’s voice joined in.

 _Leaves are falling all around,_  
_It's time I was on my way._  
_Thanks to you I'm much obliged,_ _  
For such a pleasant stay._

His voice started low and soft, difficult to hear over the breeze conversing with the trees, but it grew stronger with every verse. He had heard Dean sing in the past, in the Impala on hunts. He’d sing along to his tapes, Bob Seger and the like. This time was different, though. Castiel knew that Dean was a patently terrible singer. Sam would complain about it incessantly. Dean’s voice now, though… it was lovely. Low and sultry, full of emotion.

 _But now it's time for me to go,_  
_The autumn moon lights my way._  
_For now I smell the rain,_  
_And with it pain,_ _  
And it's headed my way._

“Dean,” Castiel choked, unable to locate the appropriate phrases.

Dean leaned in and whispered in Castiel’s ear, somehow reading his thoughts, “I only sing bad because it pisses Sammy off.” He leaned back and grinned, then began to step side to side, guiding Castiel with his hands.

 _Ah, sometimes I grow so tired,_ _  
_ _But I know I've got one thing I got to do._

Castiel was confused again, unsure of the meaning behind Dean’s movements. Suddenly, Dean pushed the angel back and then pulled him in again, only to swing him around and do the same thing again. It was all Castiel could do to keep up, to not stumble over his own feet. Dean kept singing all the while, more emphatic, until the song reached the chorus and Dean relinquished himself to the emotions that came so freely with the music.

 _Ramble on,_  
_And now's the time, the time is now,_  
_To sing my song,_  
_I'm goin' 'round the world, I got to find my girl._  
_On my way,_  
_I've been this way eight years to the day,_  
_Ramble on,_ _  
Gotta find the queen of all my dreams._

“Wh-what are you doing?” Castiel stammered.

“I’m dancing with you, angel,” Dean replied with confidence.

Dean refused to be railroaded. He refused to succumb to the supposed inevitability of their situation. If he was to be parted from Castiel, he damn sure was going to do it on his own terms. He’d show Castiel something he’d never seen before, something he knew would warm him, something to remember him by. He loved him too much to let him spend his last moments together cowering in fear. This was his show of strength, his grand gesture. He pulled Castiel up to him again, lifted his arm in the air, and spun the angel around.

 _Got no time for spreadin' roots,_  
_The time has come to be gone._  
_And to our health we drank a thousand times,_ _  
It's time to ramble on._

Castiel was dazed, overwhelmed with all of the new sensations. As Dean sang, and as they danced, Castiel felt his fear being slowly tamped down. His mind became clearer and the anger and madness was replaced by something he couldn’t quantify. He felt love for his human, a deep vein that ran through every other thought, highlighted by a tingle of hope. His heart lightened, and as it did, the correct word finally came to him. Joy.

 _Ramble on,_  
_And now's the time, the time is now,_  
_To sing my song._  
_I'm going 'round the world, I got to find my girl,_  
_on my way,_  
_I've been this way eight years to the day._  
_I gotta ramble on,_ _  
I gotta find the queen of all my dreams._

As Dean continued, he looked away from Castiel momentarily and made a startling discovery. The mist had retreated greatly, lowered to the level it was when they originally stepped into the clearing. It was no longer oozing from the tree at all, and the wind had died down to a gentle breeze. A ray of hope struck a small patch of his heart and he could feel its warmth slowly building. He intensified his singing, trying to force all of his pent up emotions out using words that came so much easier than his own.

 _I ain't tellin' no lie,_  
_Mine's a tale that can't be told,_  
_My freedom I hold dear,_  
_How years ago in days of old,_ _  
When magic filled the air._

He pulled Castiel close and leaned in, voice lowered, to softly sing into the angel’s ear. He could feel Castiel’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek as he let out a breathy sigh.

 _'Twas in the darkest depths of Mordor,_  
_I met a girl so fair,_  
_But Gollum, and the evil one,_ _  
Crept up and slipped away with her._

With that, Dean stopped singing, letting the tape continue without him, and slid his stubbly cheek alongside Castiel’s until their lips brushed against one another’s. Castiel’s were full, flush, and soft, and Dean pressed into them, deeply and with reverence. Castiel was the only thing he’d ever wanted for himself, and therefore was the one thing he never thought he deserved.

 _Ain't nothing I can do, no,_ _  
_ _I guess I keep on rambling_.

When their lips met, he felt an electric tingle run through his body, lighting up his nerve endings with a million tiny shocks of pleasure. He ran his hands up to cup Castiel’s face and parted his lips, moaning softly into his mouth. Castiel moaned back and grasped his hips, fingers digging desperately through the denim. Suddenly, Castiel was pressed up against him, snapping his hips up and into Dean. Dean could feel white hot desire coiling in his abdomen, could feel Castiel’s want for him pressing through the fabric of his trousers.

Suddenly, Castiel was scrambling to undo the buttons of Dean's shirt, fingers moving clumsily with desperation. His brain ceased thinking farther than two steps ahead. Step one, Dean’s shirt, step two, his own. Next, a kiss of crushing urgency. The mapping out of every contour of Dean’s torso with furious fingers as both shirts dropped to the ground, shrouded by mist. Dean’s breath was hot on his neck, he could feel his pulse fluttering just under the surface of his skin, desperate to make contact. They crowded into one another’s space, the fabric of their pants creating sweet friction that they both rode up and down in sensuous rhythm. Their mouths softly parted, tongues darting tantalizingly in and out of one another’s mouths. Dean noted Castiel tasted of cool water, clouds and sky, while Castiel relished Dean’s spicy, earthy taste, the taste of home. Neither could get enough and their mouths opened and closed as if sharing one thought, one objective.

Dean broke away with a gasp. “Cas, angel, what are we doing?” he asked breathlessly.

“We are doing what we want. What I want,” he panted. “What I _need_.” He started frantically trying to release Dean from his jeans. “If these are our last moments, I want to spend them with you, as close to you as possible.” He won his struggle with Dean’s belt and his pants slid to the ground. Dean nearly tripped as he hastily kicked off his boots and stepped out of his jeans and underwear.

Castiel only had a moment to admire his lover’s lithe, freckled body before Dean practically tackled the angel, stepping one leg in between Castiel’s to increase their contact, their friction. “Cas,” he gasped, “I’m sorry it took me so long, so many years. You deserve a lifetime of happiness, not just a day.”

“One day was worth the wait,” Castiel whispered, before diving into Dean’s collarbone, leaving angry, red marks with lips and teeth and tongue. “I didn’t know how to feel before you,” he said in between kisses. “I didn’t understand what it meant to be human.”

Dean sighed, hands unconsciously drifting to Castiel’s pants. He palmed the angel through his trousers, eliciting a satisfying moan that whipped Dean’s desire into frenzy. He frantically tore open Castiel’s belt and shoved his trousers and boxers down, allowing his painfully hard erection to spring out. Castiel struggled with his own shoes, but then he too was freed. The pair collided, taut, eager muscles intertwining, and they kissed desperately. Their ship was burning, sinking in a vast and stormy sea. They had no lifeboats, only each other to cling to.

Castiel could feel his adoration for Dean rising, filling him with joy and gratitude. Suddenly, Dean pushed him backward, roughly, and his back collided with the trunk of the great tree. The tree emitted a sharp hissing sound as the red miasma began to rise again.

“D-Dean,” stammered the angel as Dean dug his fingernails into his sides, kissing down his sternum, running his tongue tantalizingly across the angel’s erect nipples.

“Shhh,” hushed Dean, “I’m here, Cas. I told you I’d come.” The hunter dropped to his knees and began kissing and nibbling the sharp bones of Castiel’s hips, softly tongueing the dark hair that framed his magnificent cock. Dean had never in his life gone down on a man, had never wanted to, that is until that day all those years ago when he’d finally laid his eyes upon his destiny, his Castiel. He wasn’t exactly sure of the protocol, but he knew the broad strokes from being on the receiving end.

He started by slowly licking the underside of Castiel’s cock from root to tip, then gently flicked his tongue against the slit. Castiel had already begun leaking precum and Dean savored the salty slickness of it. He grasped Castiel’s turgidity firmly with his right hand and slowly took Castiel into his mouth, just the tip at first. He created a soft suction, and then swirled his tongue around the head. He could feel it pulsing, throbbing in his mouth, and his angel shuddered in ecstasy.

The tree began to groan as the wind picked up, and the red mist encroached again, roiling angrily. Castiel’s hand found its way down into Dean’s hair, eyelids fluttering but not daring to close, not daring to look away from his beautiful charge, his lover, his Dean.

Dean could tell he was doing well, and it emboldened him. He felt ravenous, desperate to have more of him, all of him. He began bobbing his head in a sensuous rhythm while pumping his hand up in down, trying to take as much of Castiel in his mouth as he could. The angel moaned loudly, and the white hot coals of desire within Dean started to burn right through him. He need more. He needed to feel Castiel against him. In him. He pulled off of Castiel with a wet pop, and the angel whimpered at the loss of sensation.

Dean climbed up Castiel, clinging to him for dear life. The angel spun his breathless lover around and pulled him close. Castiel pressed him roughly into the tree and kissed him hungrily on his swollen, red lips. The flush of Dean’s cheeks deepened his freckles and his eyes flashed an intoxicating shade of jade. It was as if their surroundings vanished, and only the two of the remained, locked in a dance of their own choosing. Partners.

A low rumble echoed through the clearing and the tree groaned in the intensifying gale. The red mist had coalesced into clouds that turned the grey light a sickly pink.

Castiel’s lust-filled eyes flickered with momentary panic as they darted past Dean. “It is beginning,” he rasped, voice cracking.

“I don't care!” Dean exclaimed with a strange, sad smile on his face. He pressed in and kissed Castiel deeply, lovingly, and without reservation. He took Castiel by the hips and ground into him with a steady, unwavering rhythm, and leaned into his ear to be heard over the wind. ”I want you inside of me,” he growled with lustful desperation. “Please.”

Castiel blinked hard and when his eyes opened, they were aflame, glowing like a newborn star. He growled hungrily into Dean’s ear, pelvis grinding sharply into Dean’s own, “Show me.”

Dean swallowed hard. His desire had outstripped his functional knowledge. “I, I think… you need to open me up first,” he stammered breathlessly.

Castiel was struggling to take deep, controlled breaths; he looked starved, wild. Dean didn’t know what else to do or say; he was completely mesmerized by Castiel’s eyes searing straight into him; he could feel his soul laid bare. He darted his head forward, taking Castiel’s earlobe into his mouth and biting, tugging hard, eliciting a deep, reverberating moan. Castiel’s voice, his real voice, simmered just below the surface.

“I need you, babe,” he quavered in the angel’s ear. Dean didn’t know where the endearment came from, and he didn’t care. The word fell from his lips like it had been there all along, waiting for the right opportunity.

Castiel gave a shaky nod, closed his eyes, and tipped his head forward slightly to rest his forehead against Dean’s. He thrusted gently with his hips, bodies pressing their longing for each other between them, every movement provoking a gasp from his human. Dean’s noises emboldened him, and he began to emit a dim, pulsing glow. It started from his chest and worked outwards. Dean reached his hand between the two of them, wrapped his shaky fingers around both of their throbbing cocks and slowly pumped his hand up and down. Castiel growled, an animalistic noise that prodded Dean to move his hand faster. Castiel’s glow brightened, and Dean could feel it, whispy white tendrils that tickled and pulsed against his skin. The glow traveled and extended throughout Castiel’s body, down his limbs, and Dean could feel the cool, staticky ecstasy burn through his own hand and up his arm, pooling in his chest. He gasped at the sensation, struggling to draw breath. The cool light traveled down into his lower abdomen, and Dean felt a light pressure being exerted against his own tight ring of flesh. It was cool and exhilarating, and he involuntarily let out a shuddering gasp as he tried to maintain his focus.

“C-Cas, what is that?” he stuttered.

Castiel said nothing at first, azure eyes aflame with gratitude and worship as they peered into Dean. His light grew brighter, both within himself and his human, and Dean could feel a gentle pressure wiggle its way past his tight pink ring of muscle and into him. It was breathtaking, slick, and ever so gentle. Dean's eyes threatened to roll back in his head but Castiel's stare held him.

His voice came out low, reverberant, and it caused the haze around them to shimmer. “I can see you, Dean. For the first time since we met, I can see you. The real you.”

Dean felt the cool pressure swell, tingle, and pulse. It had a wetness to it; he could feel himself expanding, loosening. “M-Me?” stammered Dean. He was near delirious from the overwhelming sensations, struggling to maintain his grip on the two of them as Castiel's grace coursed through their bodies.

Dean felt another pulse expand and flare within, brushing up against something inside that caused him to buck forward violently. “Cas!” he cried out, relinquishing all semblance of composure. He released his grip and started to slip down the tree, knees suddenly weak and wobbly. Castiel lunged forward and caught Dean, circling one arm around his waist and hooking the other under one of Dean’s thighs. He shoved Dean back up roughly, grace flaring. Dean moaned deeply as Castiel started thrusting, his white light pulsing and swelling and tonguing into Dean again and again. Unintelligible gibberish started tumbling from his lover’s mouth in between moans and gasps and exclamations of “Cas! Cas!”

Every desperate cry of ecstasy was a shimmering halo surrounding Castiel’s true fixation. He pressed in, licking his grace into Dean deeper and deeper, mingling with Dean’s own light. His soul. It was so familiar, yet so unlike when they first met. When Castiel pulled Dean’s soul from perdition, it was screaming, white hot, and flaring in agony. It was at that point the most beautiful thing Castiel had ever seen, a single human soul roaring with a ferocity he had never known. This, this was different. Dean’s soul was fully present, begging, throbbing with need and a singular, exquisite emotion.

Castiel’s eyes flared brighter as he moved faster, needier, filling Dean to the brim. Dean began to sob, to laugh, unbridled emotions running freely and unchecked. Castiel chanted in Enochian, a low growl shaking the very earth itself, wrestling with the groan of the tree and the moan of the air. They were completely surrounded in thick red fog, a lighthouse in the maelstrom, the last thing a sailor sees before running ashore.

Dean could feel himself slipping over the edge. He pulled Castiel into him and wrapped the leg he held around his back. Effusive tears streamed down his face, and despite his blissed out haze he was able to recognize Castiel’s chant from the night before. _LOVE_ . _LOVE_ . _LOVE_. He could tell the angel was close as well. The air was sparking and crackling, and suddenly Castiel’s wings erupted from behind, huge and black and glorious to behold. The long, onyx feathers disturbed the air, causing the red haze to swirl and hiss. Castiel’s wings were the heralds of rainbows, of joy, of unbroken promises. They shook and fluttered as Castiel pulsed one last time, and as the men convulsed, spilling themselves on their bellies, Castiel slammed the flat of his hand on the trunk of the tree. There was a blinding flash, and then nothing.


	30. Do It Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literary reference: The Tyger by William Blake

Dean’s eyes flew open and all he could see was pale, cerulean blue stretching outward, dizzying in its vastness. He was disoriented; he felt as if some force was pushing him backwards, pressing him in place. He tried to move forward, extend a hand, but he was weak. His head lolled to one side and it was then he realized why he felt so heavy. He was lying prone on his back, and the field of blue was actually the clear blue sky above.

He bolted upright in a panic.  _ Cas. Where is he? _ He tried to push himself to standing and stumbled, and then he saw Sam. He was wan, limp his Charlene’s arms, shirt soaked in crimson. The mangled corpse of Pearl lay but a few feet away. But where were they? Why was the light so bright? Then it hit him. The tree, it had vanished. Its ominous canopy was gone, leaving only the crisp blue of an autumnal sky. He scrambled forward and rose, only to feel something crash into him from behind. He spun around and found himself face to face with Castiel. The angel looked as disoriented as Dean felt; his wild blue eyes and softly parted mouth spoke volumes. They were alive, somehow, together. They had won. Castiel started to raise a hand toward Dean but stopped as he heard a moan escape Sam’s lips. He whipped his head around and saw him on the ground, grievously wounded. He rushed to him and kneeled, then held a hand over his abdomen. With a determined look on his face he concentrated, and a soft white glow emanated from his hand and into Sam, whose eyes rolled back into his head.

Charlene never took her eyes off Sam. She gently ran her fingers his long, sweat-soaked hair. She was mumbling something to him under her breath that Castiel could barely make out.

“...When the stars threw down their spears    
And water'd heaven with their tears:    
Did he smile his work to see?    
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?”

She leaned down and kissed his forehead, and suddenly he was gasping, bolt upright. He patted down his stomach frantically, then his eyes met Castiel’s. He nodded gratefully, then turned to Charlene who still had her arms gingerly wrapped around him. He looked past her to see that where the tree once stood there remained but a plot of scraggly weeds, and then his eyes travelled along the ground to see Pearl, lifeless, the ground around her stained a dark brown.

“Cas,” he croaked hoarsely, nodding toward Pearl. The angel turned his attention to the woman, and Dean rushed over to check on Sam.

“You okay, pal?” he said gruffly, his stoicism belied by the relief that shone in his wide eyes.

“We fought her, Dean,” he replied weakly.

Dean smiled, “us too, Sammy.”

“I guess you can’t fight fire with fire,” Charlene added, wry and breathless.

“No kiddin’,” Dean replied, eyes cast downward. Sam could see a flush rise in his brother’s cheeks.

From his crouching position Castiel turned toward them, eyes narrowed in defeat. “Charlene,” he started hoarsely, “I’m sorry… she’s too far gone.”

She hugged Sam tightly and gave a small nod, lip trembling. “I know. I did that. I…”

Sam turned toward her, grasping her by the shoulders. “That was not you, that was Lyssa, she--”

She cut him off. “No, Sam. I was using her power, but the decision was mine. I was fueled by rage, by anger, but I wanted it. I wanted to hurt her. I wanted… revenge.” Her eyes stung. “She hurt you, just like she hurt my dad, hurt me. I don’t think… I don’t think she ever loved me, Sam.”

Sam’s brow furrowed, eyes wet and glassy. “I think you should come back with us. Stay for a while.” He looked to his brother who gave a short nod of approval. “We can fix up a room for you, give you space and time.”

Castiel reached over and placed a comforting hand on her back. “I agree with Sam,” he said, gravelly voice softened with concern. “You should not be alone after this ordeal. Dean and I, we can take care of your mother’s remains if you wish.” 

Charlene nodded with blank eyes. Castiel rose and he and Dean helped them to standing. He turned to Dean and ran a hand gently down his arm, then took his hand and squeezed it. “I will be back. Right back,” he intoned lowly. “I promise.”

Dean nodded knowingly as Castiel released him. The angel placed one hand each on Sam and Charlene’s shoulders, and then all three of them vanished in a crackle of static and flutter of feathers, leaving a cool zip of ozone behind. Dean took the moment to take a breath; everything had been moving so quickly, he hadn’t yet had time to process his time down below, his experience with Castiel. Despite their awful circumstances, he felt buoyed. Lightened. Untouchable. 

Ten seconds later he felt a whoosh of air from behind him. He spun around and found himself toe to toe with Castiel, his face sad and knowing. Dean felt pulled toward him, Castiel’s gravity near irresistible, but his angel tilted his head questioningly. His eyes darted downwards, and Dean followed to where Pearl’s body laid on the ground. He realized that Castiel was holding a shovel in one hand and a can of kerosene in the other. He handed the can to Dean, then walked to the spot where the tree once grew and began digging. 

“Cas,” Dean started gruffly, “Lemme help you with that.”

“I would prefer to do it myself,” replied the angel, voice low and sad. 

Dean didn’t reply, he just watched as Castiel unloaded shovelful after shovelful of dirt until he’d dug a shallow grave. He hopped out, walked over to Pearl, and gingerly lifted her up. He made it look so easy, given Castiel’s considerable strength. With great care, the angel gently placed Pearl’s body in the hole, then walked over to Dean to retrieve the kerosene. He continued to work silently, turning and pouring out the flammable liquid until the can was empty, then handed it to Dean. He pulled out a packet of matches from his pocket, ignited the entire thing, and tossed it onto the corpse. Pearl ignited in a great flash, and Castiel took several steps back. Dean winced at the sudden flash of heat, but Castiel remained unfazed. He and Dean stood side by side in silence, arms brushing up against one another as the body slowly broke down in the flames. They hadn’t said a word to one another in over an hour, but then again they didn’t need to. Castiel had meant to protect Charlene, and felt he had failed. He thought it was the least he could do, the right thing to do. 

Once the body had been reduced to charred bone, Castiel took up the shovel again and filled in the hole. He looked to Dean and gestured with his head for him to follow, and they travelled around to the front of the house where the Camaro and Impala stood in a tangled heap. Dean inhaled a deep, shuddering breath upon seeing Baby in such a state. Down on the ground were the bodies of several dogs, and Castiel could see several more in the street. Inside and around the Impala were the corpses of kamikaze crows. Castiel sighed, and Dean finally spoke. 

“Please, Cas, let me help you with this. You don’t have to do it alone.” He let the shovel his was holding clatter to the gravel-covered ground as he walked up to Castiel, circling an arm around his waist and pressing his cheek into the angel’s. “You don’t have to do anything alone, not anymore,” he whispered into his ear. 

“I failed,” choked the angel softly.

Dean slid his other arm around Castiel and held him tightly. “You didn’t though. You beat her, babe.” There was the endearment again, so alien and yet so comfortable. “You defeated her with everything that makes you who you are: your goodness, your caring, your grace.” He slid his face back until he was forehead to forehead with Castiel. “Pearl, she made her choice. You saved Sam. You saved Charlene. You saved me.” He swallowed hard, and closed his eyes to stave off tears. “You saved me all those years ago; you saved me today.” He bit his lip and smiled. “You’re friggin’ Superman, Cas.” He opened his eyes again and his breath caught in his throat. Castiel’s great blue eyes shined through red rims. His lips were pressed together hard as tears threatened to spill from the corners of his eyes.

“I saw your soul, Dean,” he said with a swallow. “You bared it to me; it was breathtaking. It emboldened me. I absolutely could not have fought her without you. I would not have made it out had you not come for me.”

“Well then, you agree,” Dean said smugly.

“Agree?”

“You don’t have to go it alone. It’s better, you know… when we’re together.”

Castiel conceded with a nod and a small, half-smile.

They came up with a plan for the animals. They were not all dead, so Castiel healed all of the wounded animals first who either walked off or flew away dazed but no worse for the wear. Castiel whooshed away the rest of them to a thicket outside of town to serve as carrion for scavenger animals. Dean stayed by his side the whole time, speaking volumes by saying very little. When the carnage was swept away, all that remained were Baby and the Blue Angel, broken and bent.

“Hold on to me,” commanded Castiel gruffly. Dean did as he was bade, and Castiel placed one hand on the crumpled front end of the Impala while placing the other on the trunk of the Camaro. With a whoosh and a whump, Dean and Castiel were transported to the garage at the bunker, two wrecked cars in tow.

“Well, shit,” grumbled Dean. “How the hell am I going to fix this?”

“With help,” said the angel with a knowing look.

Just then, the door opened and Sam popped his head in.

“There you guys are!” he said with a sigh of relief. “Look, I’ve got Charlene set up with a room. She’s not saying much, but she did say that she wanted to talk to you,” he said, looking Castiel’s way, “when you got back.”

Castiel looked to Dean, who nodded, and then back to Sam. “Of course.”

Castiel followed Sam out of the garage, through the main living area, and down the hall to the bedrooms. He took him to the last room, well out of the way of the others, and then knocked softly on the door.

“C’mon in,” intoned Charlene’s voice, low, soft, and sad.

Castiel gently pushed in the door to find the woman, sitting cross-legged on the bed, a book in her lap. Sam closed the door behind Castiel, who stood awkwardly at in front of it. He found it difficult to look at her.

“Castiel, will you sit with me?” she inquired.

The angel cleared his throat and walked to the bed, haltingly. He smoothed his coat underneath him as he sat on the bed, hands folded in his lap. Charlene set the book aside, Sam’s copy of  _ The Devil in the White City _ , and crawled over to Castiel, sliding her long arms around his waist and holding him tightly. He slowly lifted his own arm and reached around her shoulder, and placed his other hand on her arm that was wrapped around the front of him. They stayed like that for a while, neither of them really knew how long. 

When Castiel had first met Charlene, he was so taken with her, so impressed by her confidence and whimsy. He had mentally noted that it was as if she had a grace of her own, something undefinable yet undeniably good. He later assumed that it most likely had something to do with Lyssa, with being a destined vessel. Lyssa was gone now, but Castiel knew; whatever power flowed through Charlene was still there, still good, and still quite remarkable.

She finally spoke, not raising her head from Castiel’s chest. “What do I do now?”

“I suppose, whatever you would like to do. You no longer have your mother to tether you here--” he cut himself off, realizing his insensitivity.

“You don’t need to censor yourself on my account, Cas,” she corrected sharply. “I’m a big girl. I understand the consequences of my actions. I wanted to talk to you because… because I understand you. And I think you understand me.”

The angel cleared his throat and squeezed her close as a form of confirmation. “You cared for Sam. Do you care for him still, after all of this?”

“Intensely. But trauma like this? It doesn’t make for a good foundation upon which to build a relationship, does it?”

Castiel elaborated. “I met Dean when I pulled his soul out of Hell. The second time we met, he shot and stabbed me.” The angel gave a small shrug, his voice deepening. “When we are not taking turns dying for one another, we are beating each other to a bloody pulp. I am not sure I am the best advisor regarding these matters.”

Charlene untangled herself from Castiel and flopped backward with a harrumph. She tugged on the angel’s sleeve and he followed suit, and they laid there on their backs, hands folded over their bellies.

“I like you, Cas,” she mused. “I like Dean, too. And Sam? Well, he’s something else entirely. I… I want to stay, but I don’t want to be a burden. I want Sam to want me to stay, but not out of obligation. And…” she searched for the words, “I want you to stay too, because despite the fact that you’re a frickin’ extradimensional being, you’re really the only consistent thing I’ve got going for me right now.”

Castiel shot a small smile at the ceiling. “What did Sam say?”

“Oh, he told me to stay as long as I’d like. He’s real bashful around me, y’know? Eager to please, puppy dog eyes, the whole shebang.” He voice dropped to a whisper tone. “We had, well we had a moment, back when Lyssa was trying to take me, hurt Dean. He and I pushed her away. I had these visions, where I saw… you?”

Castiel didn’t reply, just listened.

“I was so angry, so enraged, but then I saw you. I saw you in the diner, I saw you with the pies. I remembered hugging you, listening to you sing. I saw your light and then I… fuck!” She exclaimed. “I don’t know how to explain this!” She turned on her side and propped herself up on an elbow. “Castiel, I saw your light and then I saw my own! And that’s how I pushed her away!”

He rolled toward her and sat up. “I saw yours when you first walked up to me at the diner,” he confided. “I do not know what it is exactly, or what it means, but it makes you special. If you stay, you can learn about it. This bunker has a wealth of knowledge, more books than you could ever read--”

“Is that a dare, Castiel?” she grinned, impishly.

“-- and I know that regardless of what happens with Sam, Dean and I will be forever grateful to you.”

“So, do  _ you  _ want me to stay, Cas?”

“Of course. That is a ridiculous question.”


	31. Shocking Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literary reference: Running With Scissors by Augusten Burroughs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great big thanks out there to all my readers and commenters. I love writing these stories and I sincerely appreciate all of your support and feedback.

In the garage, Sam walked up to Dean, tipped his head to one side and stared at his brother from under a furrowed brow.

“Sammy, before you say anything I--”

Sam interrupted his brother with a sudden, rough hug. He squeezed Dean tight enough to cause him to gasp. He reached around and patted Sam awkwardly on the back, but after a few seconds he realized that wouldn’t be enough. He gave in, wrapped his arms around Sam, and squeezed him right back. It was only then that Sam let go a took a step back.

“What was that all about?” chuffed Dean.

“Only you would have to ask that question,” Sam retorted.

Dean looked away, struggling to make eye contact, and didn’t speak for a moment. “That was some pretty fucked up shit, wasn’t it?”

“I thought you were gone, man,” he faltered. “You and Cas both.”

“We figured it out,” mumbled Dean.

“We always do,” his brother affirmed.

Dean exhaled sharply before turning his attention back to his brother. “So, what happened? How did you--”

“Charlene summoned grace-like powers by remembering Castiel,” explained Sam flatly. “At least, that’s how she described it.”

“Say what now?” blurted Dean.

“I think, I dunno Dean. It’s weird. There is something going on with her that isn’t, strictly speaking, human.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Well, she, uh… she was meant to be a vessel, right? Maybe it’s like… a byproduct? Added value?” He shrugged. “I got nothin’, man.”

“I plan to do some research, but until then I’d like her to stay with us, that is if that’s alright with you.”

“Research?” Dean raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

“I mean, I don’t think she should be out there, going it alone,” Sam clarified.

“Sammy, you like this gir-- woman a lot, right?”

Sam cleared his throat and looked away, a touch of flush rising in his cheeks.

“Telling her to stay for ‘research purposes’ isn’t exactly romantic,” Dean snarked.

“Oh, you’re an expert on romance all of a sudden?” he countered.

“Hey! I’ve got moves! You shoulda seen me when--” he abruptly cut himself off, his own crimson tell rising.

A smile unfolded across Sam face. “When what?”

Dean cleared his throat and shifted nervously. “Let just say that while you two were working your magic up top, Cas and I were manning the engine below deck.”

“Dean, I had no idea someone could cram so much innuendo into one metaphor. I applaud you.”

“I’m serious, Sam! Charlene had her… grace or whatever, and Castiel had his, and I think between the two of them they were able to banish Lyssa back to… wherever.”

“That’s another thing we need to research. And you know who’s great at research?”

“Lemme guess, Charlene?”

“I think she could help us with a lot of things around here.”

“Sam, she’s not an assistant. She’s your girlfriend.”

Sam sighed. “When did I start sucking at relationships?”

“Dude, when were you ever good at them?”

“Touche.”

“Look,” said Dean sympathetically, “you are clearly head over heels for her. You don’t need a million logical reasons to ask her to stick around. Only _you_ would feel the need to do that. If you want her to stay, if you want to be around her, then tell her. Don’t go Sam all over everything with your Sam-ness.” He gave his brother a wry smile. “Use your friggin’ words, right?”

“Dude, I can’t! I look at her and my mouth stops working. I think I stammered something about staying as long as she’d like, but I probably sounded weird, desperate. She said she needed to think about it, then asked for Cas. Why Cas?”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Because Cas is her friend. Neutral. Pre-Sam, even if only by six hours. Plus, you said it; there is something about her that is more like Cas than it is like us.”

“Okay. I get it. I guess we just need to wait awhile, huh?”

“Patience was never our virtue.”

“I’m exhausted,” said Sam, stifling a yawn.

“I think I’m gonna power through until after dinner. Speaking of dinner… I’m fucking starving. I’ll I’ve had to eat in the last twenty-four hours is pie.”

Sam snorted, then sniggered, then doubled over with laughter. He laughed so hard that just the sight of him made Dean bite his lip, trying to hold back his own guffaw, but to no avail. They laughed and laughed until they were gasping, clutching their stomachs in pain.

Finally, Sam caught his breath again and stood. “Well, what do you want to eat?” he asked with a wheeze.

“Breakfast, Sam. Always breakfast.”

They headed out of the garage and into the main living area. They went into the kitchen and started cooking together, Sam manning the eggs, Dean making pancake batter. After about 30 minutes they had a great stack of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and a fresh pot of coffee. The kitchen smelled glorious, and Dean’s mouth watered.

“I’ll go check on them, see if Charlene wants some food,” suggested Sam awkwardly.

Dean winked and gave him a thumbs up. He eyed the food with a squint, and as soon as his brother was out of sight he snatched up a slice of bacon and quickly hoovered it into his mouth. His eyelids fluttered closed. “Best. Bacon. Ever.” he hummed to himself.

Suddenly, Sam appeared in the kitchen with eyes wide.

“What?” squeaked Dean, mouth full of bacon. “I was just test--”

“Dean. She’s gone.”

“Wait, what?” he said after swallowing.

“She’s not in her room. Cas is gone too,” he admitted.

Without hesitation or reservation, Dean closed his eyes and prayed. “Hey, Cas, I made pancakes and I really want to eat them so if you could--”

Suddenly, there was the crisp hiss of static and a soft flutter, and both Castiel and Charlene appeared in the middle of the kitchen. Charlene carried a large duffle bag, and Castiel was clutching a number of books. They both smiled sheepishly.

“I’m sorry for taking so long,” she shrugged. I just, uh, didn’t know what I needed to bring and then,” she grinned, “I noticed that someone had gone through my apartment--”

“It was his idea,” said Dean through another mouthful of bacon, pointing at Sam.

Sam flared his eyes at his brother. “I’m sorry, really I am,” he stammered. “I just, we just--”

Charlene dropped the duffle to the ground, reached her arms around Sam’s neck, and kissed him chastely on the lips. She blinked her big blue eyes mischievously, and then in her low and sultry voice she said, “I’d love to stay a while, that is if you still want me. You’re my shocking red. The brightest thing in my day.”

“Say yes, Sam,” prompted Castiel gruffly.

“Yes, Sam,” Sam mumbled, starry-eyed.

Dean walked over to Castiel and kissed him on the temple. Castiel slid his free hand into Dean’s and they wove their fingers together.

“This is ridiculous,” mumbled Dean, gesturing with bacon in hand to Sam and Charlene, fully engaged in a deep and clearly meaningful kiss.

“Utterly,” agreed Castiel flatly.

Dean took the last bite of bacon and held it up to Castiel’s mouth, still tightly clinging to his hand. The angel took it and chewed, and then his eyes rolled back into his head, eyelids fluttering. He gave a little moan, and Dean smiled.


End file.
